UC-NRLF 


B   14   723 


SWORD  BLADES 

AND 

POPPY  SEED 


AMY  LOWELL 
^SKSKKKSlf^ 


A.F. 


THE 


SWORD  BLADES 

AND 

POPPY  SEED 


Books  by  AMY  LOWELL 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Poetry 
WHAT'S  O'CLOCK 

LEGENDS 

PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 
CAN  GRANDE'S  CASTLE 
MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GHOSTS 
SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED 
A  DOME  OF  MANY-COLOURED  GLASS 
A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

(IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  FLORENCE  ATSCOUGH) 
FIR-FLOWER   TABLETS:    POEMS   TRANSLATED 
FROM  THE  CHINESE 

Prose 

TENDENCIES  IN  MODERN  AMERICAN  POETRY 

six  FRENCH  POETS:  STUDIES  IN  CONTEMPO 
RARY  LITERATURE 
JOHN  KEATS 


SWORD  BLADES 

AND 

POPPY  SEED 


BY 

AMY  LOWELL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ffiitoetfibe 


\  / 

V  MEMJWAt  LIBRARY 

COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  AMY  LOWELL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


PUBLISHED  OCTOBER,  1914 

REPRINTED   AUGUST,  1916:  APRIL,   1917 

AUGUST,   1919;   MARCH,   1921 J  AUGUST,   IO22 

JUNE,    1924;   DECEMBER,   1925 


fcfje  &iber*itie  ^rcsss 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


"Face  invisible!  je  fai  gravee  en  medailles 
D'argent  doux  comme  I'aube  pale,    , 

r  S 

D'or  ardent  comme  le  soleil, 

D'airain  sombre  comme  la  nuit; 

II  y  en  a  de  tout  metal,  j  I 

Qui  tintent  clair  comme  la  joie, 

Qui  sonnent  lourd  comme  la  gloire, 

Comme  V 'amour,  comme  la  mort; 

Etj'aifait  les  plus  belles  de  belle  argile  , 

Seche  et  fragile. 

"fJne  a  une,  vous  les  comptiez  en  sourianty 
Et  vous  disiez:  II  est  habile; 
Et  vous  passiez  en  souriant. 

"  Aucun  de  vous  n'a  done  vu 
Que  mes  mains  tremblaient  de  tendresse9 
Que  tout  le  grand  songe  terrestre 
Vivait  en  moi  pour  vivre  en  eux 
Que  je  gravais  aux  metaux  pieux9 
Mes  Dieux" 

Henri  de  Regnier,  "  LES  MEDAILLES  D' ARGILE." 

683057 


PREFACE 

No  one  expects  a  man  to  make  a  chair  without 
first  learning  how,  but  there  is  a  popular  impres 
sion  that  the  poet  is  born,  not  made,  and  that  his 
verses  burst  from  his  overflowing  heart  of  them 
selves.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  poet  must  learn 
his  trade  in  the  same  manner,  and  with  the  same 
painstaking  care,  as  the  cabinet-maker.  His  heart 
may  overflow  with  high  thoughts  and  sparkling 
fancies,  but  if  he  cannot  convey  them  to  his  reader 
by  means  of  the  written  word  he  has  no  claim  to 
be  considered  a  poet.  A  workman  may  be  par 
doned,  therefore,  for  spending  a  few  moments  to 
explain  and  describe  the  technique  of  his  trade. 
A  work  of  beauty  which  cannot  stand  an  inti 
mate  examination  is  a  poor  and  jerry-built  thing. 

In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  state  my  firm  be 
lief  that  poetry  should  not  try  to  teach,  that  it 
should  exist  simply  because  it  is  a  created  beauty, 


Viii  PREFACE 

even  if  sometimes  the  beauty  of  a  gothic  gro 
tesque.  We  do  not  ask  the  trees  to  teach  us 
moral  lessons,  and  only  the  Salvation  Army  feels 
it  necessary  to  pin  texts  upon  them.  We  know 
that  these  texts  are  ridiculous,  but  many  of  us 
do  not  yet  see  that  to  write  an  obvious  moral 
all  over  a  work  of  art,  picture,  statue,  or  poem, 
is  not  only  ridiculous,  but  timid  and  vulgar.  We 
distrust  a  beauty  we  only  half  understand,  and 
rush  in  with  our  impertinent  suggestions.  How 
far  we  are  from  "  admitting  the  Universe  "  !  The 
Universe,  which  flings  down  its  continents  and 
seas,  and  leaves  them  without  comment.  Art  is 
as  much  a  function  of  the  Universe  as  an  Equi 
noctial  gale,  or  the  Law  of  Gravitation ;  and  we 
insist  upon  considering  it  merely  a  little  scroll 
work,  of  no  great  importance  unless  it  be  studded 
with  nails  from  which  pretty  and  uplifting  senti 
ments  may  be  hung  ! 

For  the  purely  technical  side  I  must  state  my 
immense  debt  to  the  French,  and  perhaps  above 


PREFACE  IX 

all  to  the,  so-called,  Parnassian  School,  although 
some  of  the  writers  who  have  influenced  me  most 
do  not  belong  to  it.  High-minded  and  untiring 
workmen,  they  have  spared  no  pains  to  produce 
a  poetry  finer  than  that  of  any  other  country  in 
our  time.  Poetry  so  full  of  beauty  and  feeling, 
that  the  study  of  it  is  at  once  an  inspiration 
and  a  despair  to  the  artist.  The  Anglo-Saxon  of 
our  day  has  a  tendency  to  think  that  a  fine  idea 
excuses  slovenly  workmanship.  These  clear-eyed 
Frenchmen  are  a  reproof  to  our  self-satisfied 
laziness.  Before  the  works  of  Parnassians  like 
Leconte  de  Lisle,  and  Jose-Maria  de  Heredia, 
or  those  of  Henri  de  Regnier,  Albert  Samain, 
Francis  Jammes,  Remy  de  Gourmont,  and  Paul 
Fort,  of  the  more  modern  school,  we  stand  re 
buked.  Indeed  —  "They  order  this  matter  bet 
ter  in  France." 

It  is  because  in  France,  to-day,  poetry  is  so  liv 
ing  and  vigorous  a  thing,  that  so  many  metrical 
experiments  come  from  there.  Only  a  vigorous 


X  PREFACE 

tree  has  the  vitality  to  put  forth  new  branches. 
The  poet  with  originality  and  power  is  always 
seeking  to  give  his  readers  the  same  poignant 
feeling  which  he  has  himself.  To  do  this  he 
must  constantly  find  new  and  striking  images, 
delightful  and  unexpected  forms.  Take  the  word 
"daybreak,"  for  instance.  What  a  remarkable 
picture  it  must  once  have  conjured  up  !  The 
great,  round  sun,  like  the  yolk  of  some  mighty 
egg,  breaking  through  cracked  and  splintered 
clouds.  But  we  have  said  "daybreak"  so  often 
that  we  do  not  see  the  picture  any  more,  it  has 
become  only  another  word  for  dawn.  The  poet 
must  be  constantly  seeking  new  pictures  to  make 
his  readers  feel  the  vitality  of  his  thought. 

Many  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  are  written 
in  what  the  French  call  "Vers  Libre,"  a  nomen 
clature  more  suited  to  French  use  and  to  French 
versification  than  to  ours.  I  prefer  to  call  them 
poems  in  "unrhymed  cadence,"  for  that  conveys 
their  exact  meaning  to  an  English  ear.  They  are 


PREFACE  XI 


built  upon  "organic  rhythm,"  or  the  rhythm  of 
the  speaking  voice  with  its  necessity  for  breath 
ing,  rather  than  upon  a  strict  metrical  system. 
They  differ  from  ordinary  prose  rhythms  by  be 
ing  more  curved,  and  containing  more  stress. 
The  stress,  and  exceedingly  marked  curve,  of  any 
regular  metre  is  easily  perceived.  These  poems, 
built  upon  cadence,  are  more  subtle,  but  the  laws 
they  follow  are  not  less  fixed.  Merely  chopping 
prose  lines  into  lengths  does  not  produce  ca 
dence,  it  is  constructed  upon  mathematical  and 
absolute  laws  of  balance  and  time.  In  the  pref 
ace  to  his  "Poems,"  Henley  speaks  of  "those 
unrhyming  rhythms  in  which  I  had  tried  to 
quintessentialize,  as  (I  believe)  one  scarce  can 
do  in  rhyme."  The  desire  to  "quintessential 
ize,"  to  head-up  an  emotion  until  it  burns  white- 
hot,  seems  to  be  an  integral  part  of  the  modern 
temper,  and  certainly  "unrhymed  cadence"  is 
unique  in  its  power  of  expressing  this. 

Three  of  these  poems  are  written  in  a  form 


Xii  PREFACE 

which,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  never  before  been 
attempted  in  English.  M.  Paul  Fort  is  its  in 
ventor,  and  the  results  it  has  yielded  to  him  are 
most  beautiful  and  satisfactory.  Perhaps  it  is 
more  suited  to  the  French  language  than  to  Eng 
lish.  But  I  found  it  the  only  medium  in  which 
these  particular  poems  could  be  written.  It  is  a 
fluid  and  changing  form,  now  prose,  now  verse, 
and  permitting  a  great  variety  of  treatment. 

But  the  reader  will  see  that  I  have  not  entirely 
abandoned  the  more  classic  English  metres.  I 
cannot  see  why,  because  certain  manners  suit 
certain  emotions  and  subjects,  it  should  be  con 
sidered  imperative  for  an  author  to  employ  no 
others.  Schools  are  for  those  who  can  confine 
themselves  within  them.  Perhaps  it  is  a  weak 
ness  in  me  that  I  cannot. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  say  that  these  remarks 
are  in  answer  to  many  questions  asked  me  by 
people  who  have  happened  to  read  some  of  these 
poems  in  periodicals.  They  are  not  for  the  pur- 


PREFACE  xiii 

pose  of  forestalling  criticism,  nor  of  courting  it ; 
and  they  deal,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  solely 
with  the  question  of  technique.  For  the  more  im 
portant  part  of  the  book,  the  poems  must  speak 

for  themselves. 

AMY  LOWELL. 

MAY  19,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED        ....  3 

SWORD   BLADES 

THE  CAPTURED  GODDESS 31 

THE  PRECINCT.  ROCHESTER 34 

THE  CYCLISTS 39 

SUNSHINE  THROUGH  A  COB  WEBBED  WINDOW       .        .  41 

A  LONDON  THOROUGHFARE .43 

ASTIGMATISM 45 

THE  COAL  PICKER      . 50 

STORM-RACKED 53 

CONVALESCENCE 54 

PATIENCE 55 

APOLOGY 57 

A  PETITION 59 


XVI  CONTENTS 

A  BLOCKHEAD 60 

STUPIDITY 61 

IRONY 63 

HAPPINESS 64 

THE  LAST  QUARTER  OF  THE  MOON     .        .        .     ...   66 

A  TALE  OF  STARVATION      .        .        .        ...      69 

THE  FOREIGNER -t   .      79 

ABSENCE ?  .        .85 

A  GIFT f  .  '*    *     86 

THE  BUNGLER     .        ...        .        .        .        .        .87 

FOOL'S  MONEY  BAGS 88 

MISCAST  I .89 

MISCAST  II 91 

ANTICIPATION 92 

VINTAGE 93 

THE  TREE  OF  SCARLET  BERRIES         ....      94 

OBLIGATION 95 

THE  TAXI 96 

THE  GIVER  OF  STARS  .  97 


CONTENTS  XV11 

THE  TEMPLE 98 

EPITAPH  OF  A  YOUNG  POET 99 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  REQUEST 100 

POPPY   SEED 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE  OF  MAX  BREUCK          .        .  103 

SANCTA  MARIA,  SUCCURRE  MISERIS     ....  148 

AFTER  HEARING  A  WALTZ  BY  BART6K        .        .        .  155 
CLEAR,  WITH  LIGHT,  VARIABLE  WINDS        .        .        .160 

THE  BASKET 164 

IN  A  CASTLE 172 

THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS  OF  SISTER  CLOTILDE        .        .  179 

THE  EXETER  ROAD 200 

THE  SHADOW 204 

THE  FORSAKEN 227 

LATE  SEPTEMBER 232 

THE  PIKE 234 

THE  BLUE  SCARF 236 

WHITE  AND  GREEN ,  238 


XV111                                          CONTENTS 

AUBADE          

.     239 

Music         

.     240 

A  LADY       ....... 

.     242 

IN  A  GARDEN      

.     244 

A  TULIP  GARDEN 

,     246 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The,  Ctntury, 
Scribner's,  Poetry,  The  International,  The  Glebe,  and  The  Egoist, 
London,  for  their  courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these  poema 
which  have  been  copyrighted  by  them. 


SWORD  BLADES 

AND 
POPPY  SEED 


SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED 

A  DRIFTING,  April,  twilight  sky, 

A  wind  which  blew  the  puddles  dry, 

And  slapped  the  river  into  waves 

That  ran  and  hid  among  the  staves 

Of  an  old  wharf.  A  watery  light 

Touched  bleak  the  granite  bridge,  and  white 

Without  the  slightest  tinge  of  gold, 

The  city  shivered  in  the  cold. 

All  day  my  thoughts  had  lain  as  dead, 

Unborn  and  bursting  in  my  head. 

From  time  to  time  I  wrote  a  word 

Which  lines  and  qircles  overscored. 

My  table  seemed  a  graveyard,  full 

Of  coffins  waiting  burial. 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

I  seized  these  vile  abortions,  tore 
Them  into  jagged  bits,  and  swore 
To  be  the  dupe  of  hope  no  more. 
Into  the  evening  straight  I  went, 
Starved  of  a  day's  accomplishment. 
Unnoticing,  I  wandered  where 
The  city  gave  a  space  for  air, 
And  on  the  bridge's  parapet 
I  leant,  while  pallidly  there  set 
A  dim,  discouraged,  worn-out  sun. 
Behind  me,  where  the  tramways  run, 
Blossomed  bright  lights,  I  turned  to  leave. 
When  someone  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve. 
:<Your  pardon,  Sir,  but  I  should  be 
Most  grateful  could  you  lend  to  me 
A  carfare,  I  have  lost  my  purse." 
The  voice  was  clear,  concise,  and  terse. 
I  turned  and  met  the  quiet  gaze 
Of  strange  eyes  flashing  through  the  haze. 


SWORD   BLADES   AND    POPPY   SEED 

The  man  was  old  and  slightly  bent, 
Under  his  cloak  some  instrument 
Disarranged  its  stately  line, 
He  rested  on  his  cane  a  fine 
And  nervous  hand,  an  almandine 
Smouldered  with  dull-red  flames,  sanguine 
It  burned  in  twisted  gold,  upon 
His  finger.   Like  some  Spanish  don, 
Conferring  favours  even  when 
Asking  an  alms,  he  bowed  again 
And  waited.   But  my  pockets  proved 
Empty,  in  vain  I  poked  and  shoved, 
No  hidden  penny  lurking  there 
Greeted  my  search.    "Sir,  I  declare 
I  have  no  money,  pray  forgive, 
But  let  me  take  you  where  you  live." 
And  so  we  plodded  through  the  mire 
Where  street  lamps  cast  a  wavering  fire. 


6  SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

I  took  no  note  of  where  we  went, 

His  talk  became  the  element 

Wherein  my  being  swam,  content. 

It  flashed  like  rapiers  in  the  night 

Lit  by  uncertain  candle-light, 

When  on  some  moon-forsaken  sward 

A  quarrel  dies  upon  a  sword. 

It  hacked  and  carved  like  a  cutlass  blade, 

And  the  noise  in  the  air  the  broad  words  made 

Was  the  cry  of  the  wind  at  a  window-pane 

On  an  Autumn  night  of  sobbing  rain. 

Then  it  would  run  like  a  steady  stream 

Under  pinnacled  bridges  where  minarets  gleam, 

Or  lap  the  air  like  the  lapping  tide 

Where  a  marble  staircase  lifts  its  wide 

Green-spotted  steps  to  a  garden  gate, 

And  a  waning  moon  is  sinking  straight 

Down  to  a  black  and  ominous  sea, 

While  a  nightingale  sings  in  a  lemon  tree. 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

I  walked  as  though  some  opiate 

Had  stung  and  dulled  my  brain,  a  state 

Acute  and  slumbrous.   It  grew  late. 

We  stopped,  a  house  stood  silent,  dark. 

The  old  man  scratched  a  match,  the  spark 

Lit  up  the  keyhole  of  a  door, 

We  entered  straight  upon  a  floor 

White  with  finest  powdered  sand 

Carefully  sifted,  one  might  stand 

Muddy  and  dripping,  and  yet  no  trace 

Would  stain  the  boards  of  this  kitchen-place. 

From  the  chimney,  red  eyes  sparked  the  gloom, 

And  a  cricket's  chirp  filled  all  the  room. 

My  host  threw  pine-cones  on  the  fire 

And  crimson  and  scarlet  glowed  the  pyre 

Wrapped  in  the  golden  flame's  desire. 

The  chamber  opened  like  an  eye, 

As  a  half-melted  cloud  in  a  Summer  sky 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

The  soul  of  the  house  stood  guessed,  and  shy 
It  peered  at  the  stranger  warily. 
A  little  shop  with  its  various  ware 
Spread  on  shelves  with  nicest  care. 
Pitchers,  and  jars,  and  jugs,  and  pots, 
Pipkins,  and  mugs,  and  many  lots 
Of  lacquered  canisters,  black  and  gold, 
Like  those  in  which  Chinese  tea  is  sold. 
Chests,  and  puncheons,  kegs,  and  flasks, 
Goblets,  chalices,  firkins,  and  casks. 
In  a  corner  three  ancient  amphorae  leaned 
Against  the  wall,  like  ships  careened. 
There  was  dusky  blue  of  Wedgewood  ware, 
The  carved,  white  figures  fluttering  there 
Like  leaves  adrift  upon  the  air. 
Classic  in  touch,  but  emasculate, 
The  Greek  soul  grown  effeminate. 
The  factory  of  Sevres  had  lent 
Elegant  boxes  with  ornament 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED  9 

Culled  from  gardens  where  fountains  splashed 
And  golden  carp  in  the  shadows  flashed, 
Nuzzling  for  crumbs  under  lily-pads, 
Which  ladies  threw  as  the  last  of  fads. 
Eggshell  trays  where  gay  beaux  knelt, 
Hand  on  heart,  and  daintily  spelt 
Their  love  in  flowers,  brittle  and  bright, 
Artificial  and  fragile,  which  told  aright 
The  vows  of  an  eighteenth-century  knight. 
The  cruder  tones  of  old  Dutch  jugs 
Glared  from  one  shelf,  where  Toby  mugs 
Endlessly  drank  the  foaming  ale, 
Its  froth  grown  dusty,  awaiting  sale. 
The  glancing  light  of  the  burning  wood 
Played  over  a  group  of  jars  which  stood 
On  a  distant  shelf,  it  seemed  the  sky 
Had  lent  the  half-tones  of  his  blazonry 
To  paint  these  porcelains  with  unknown  hues 
Of  reds  dyed  purple  and  greens  turned  blues, 


10  SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

Of  lustres  with  so  evanescent  a  sheen 
Their  colours  are  felt,  but  never  seen. 
Strange  winged  dragons  writhe  about 
These  vases,  poisoned  venoms  spout, 
Impregnate  with  old  Chinese  charms ; 
Sealed  urns  containing  mortal  harms, 
They  fill  the  mind  with  thoughts  impure, 
Pestilent  drippings  from  the  ure 
Of  vicious  thinkings.   "Ah,  I  see," 
Said  I,  "you  deal  in  pottery." 
The  old  man  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
Shook  his  head  gently.   "No,"  said  he. 

Then  from  under  his  cloak  he  took  the  thing 
Which  I  had  wondered  to  see  him  bring 
Guarded  so  carefully  from  sight. 
As  he  laid  it  down  it  flashed  in  the  light, 
A  Toledo  blade,  with  basket  hilt, 
Damascened  with  arabesques  of  gilt, 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED  11 

Or  rather  gold,  and  tempered  so 
It  could  cut  a  floating  thread  at  a  blow. 
The  old  man  smiled,  "It  has  no  sheath, 
'Twas  a  little  careless  to  have  it  beneath 
My  cloak,  for  a  jostle  to  my  arm 
Would  have  resulted  in  serious  harm. 
But  it  was  so  fine,  I  could  not  wait, 
So  I  brought  it  with  me  despite  its  state." 
"An  amateur  of  arms,"  I  thought, 
"Bringing  home  a  prize  which  he  has  bought." 
"You  care  for  this  sort  of  thing,  Dear  Sir  ?" 
"Not  in  the  way  which  you  infer. 
I  need  them  in  business,  that  is  all." 
And  he  pointed  his  finger  at  the  wall. 
Then  I  saw  what  I  had  not  noticed  before. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  at  least  five  score 
Of  swords  and  daggers  of  every  size 
Which  nations  of  militant  men  could  devise. 
Poisoned  spears  from  tropic  seas, 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED 

That  natives,  under  banana  trees, 

Smear  with  the  juice  of  some  deadly  snake. 

Blood-dipped  arrows,  which  savages  make 

And  tip  with  feathers,  orange  and  green, 

A  quivering  death,  in  harlequin  sheen. 

High  up,  a  fan  of  glancing  steel 

Was  formed  of  claymores  in  a  wheel. 

Jewelled  swords  worn  at  kings'  levees 

Were  suspended  next  midshipmen's  dirks,  and 

these 

Elbowed  stilettos  come  from  Spain, 
Chased  with  some  splendid  Hidalgo's  name. 
There  were  Samurai  swords  from  old  Japan, 
And  scimitars  from  Hindoostan, 
While  the  blade  of  a  Turkish  yataghan 
Made  a  waving  streak  of  vitreous  white 
Upon  the  wall,  in  the  firelight. 
Foils  with  buttons  broken  or  lost 
Lay  heaped  on  a  chair,  among  them  tossed 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED  13 

The  boarding-pike  of  a  privateer. 

Against  the  chimney  leaned  a  queer 

Two-handed  weapon,  with  edges  dull 

As  though  from  hacking  on  a  skull. 

The  rusted  blood  corroded  it  still. 

My  host  took  up  a  paper  spill 

From  a  heap  which  lay  in  an  earthen  bowl, 

And  lighted  it  at  a  burning  coal. 

At  either  end  of  the  table,  tall 

Wax  candles  were  placed,  each  in  a  small;, 

And  slim,  and  burnished  candlestick 

Of  pewter.   The  old  man  lit  each  wick, 

And  the  room  leapt  more  obviously 

Upon  my  mind,  and  I  could  see 

What  the  flickering  fire  had  hid  from  me0 

Above  the  chimney's  yawning  throat, 

Shoulder  high,  like  the  dark  wainscote, 

Was  a  mantelshelf  of  polished  oak 

Blackened  with  the  pungent  smoke 


14  SWORD   BLADES   AND    POPPY   SEED 

Of  firelit  nights ;  a  Cromwell  clock 

Of  tarnished  brass  stood  like  a  rock 

In  the  midst  of  a  heaving,  turbulent  sea 

Of  every  sort  of  cutlery. 

There  lay  knives  sharpened  to  any  use, 

The  keenest  lancet,  and  the  obtuse 

And  blunted  pruning  bill-hook ;  blades 

Of  razors,  scalpels,  shears ;  cascades 

Of  penknives,  with  handles  of  mother-of-pearl, 

And  scythes,  and  sickles,  and  scissors ;  a  whirl 

Of  points  and  edges,  and  underneath 

Shot  the  gleam  of  a  saw  with  bristling  teeth. 

My  head  grew  dizzy,  I  seemed  to  hear 

A  battle-cry  from  somewhere  near, 

The  clash  of  arms,  and  the  squeal  of  balls, 

And  the  echoless  thud  when  a  dead  man  falls. 

A  smoky  cloud  had  veiled  the  room, 

Shot  through  with  lurid  glares ;  the  gloom 

Pounded  with  shouts  and  dying  groans, 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED  15 

With  the  drip  of  blood  on  cold,  hard  stones. 

Sabres  and  lances  in  streaks  of  light 

Gleamed  through  the  smoke,  and  at  my  right 

A  creese,  like  a  licking  serpent's  tongue, 

Glittered  an  instant,  while  it  stung. 

Streams,  and  points,  and  lines  of  fire  ! 

The  livid  steel,  which  man's  desire 

Had  forged  and  welded,  burned  white  and  coldo 

Every  blade  which  man  could  mould, 

Which  could  cut,  or  slash,  or  cleave,  or  rip, 

Or  pierce,  or  thrust,  or  carve,  or  strip, 

Or  gash,  or  chop,  or  puncture,  or  tear, 

Or  slice,  or  hack,  they  all  were  there. 

Nerveless  and  shaking,  round  and  round, 

I  stared  at  the  walls  and  at  the  ground, 

Till  the  room  spun  like  a  whipping  top, 

And  a  stern  voice  in  my  ear  said,  "Stop ! 

I  sell  no  tools  for  murderers  here. 

Of  what  are  you  thinking  !   Please  clear 


16  SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY  SEED 

Your  mind  of  such  imaginings. 

Sit  down.  I  will  tell  you  of  these  things." 

He  pushed  me  into  a  great  chair 

Of  russet  leather,  poked  a  flare 

Of  tumbling  flame,  with  the  old  long  sword, 

Up  the  chimney ;  but  said  no  word. 

Slowly  he  walked  to  a  distant  shelf, 

And  brought  back  a  crock  of  finest  delf . 

He  rested  a  moment  a  blue- veined  hand 

Upon  the  cover,  then  cut  a  band 

Of  paper,  pasted  neatly  round, 

Opened  and  poured.   A  sliding  sound 

Came  from  beneath  his  old  white  hands, 

And  I  saw  a  little  heap  of  sands, 

Black  and  smooth.   What  could  they  be  % 

"Pepper,"  I  thought.   He  looked  at  me. 

"What  you  see  is  poppy  seed. 
Lethean  dreams  for  those  in  need." 


SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED  17 

He  took  up  the  grains  with  a  gentle  hand 
And  sifted  them  slowly  like  hour-glass  sand. 
On  his  old  white  finger  the  almandine 
Shot  out  its  rays,  incarnadine. 

'Visions  for  those  too  tired  to  sleep. 
These  seeds  cast  a  film  over  eyes  which  weep. 
No  single  soul  in  the  world  could  dwell, 
Without  these  poppy-seeds  I  sell." 
For  a  moment  he  played  with  the  shining  stuff, 
Passing  it  through  his  fingers.   Enough 
At  last,  he  poured  it  back  into 
The  china  jar  of  Holland  blue, 
Which  he  carefully  carried  to  its  place. 
Then,  with  a  smile  on  his  aged  face, 
He  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  open  space 
'Twixt  table  and  chimney.   "Without  preface, 
Young  man,  I  will  say  that  what  you  see 
Is  not  the  puzzle  you  take  it  to  be." 

'But  surely,  Sir,  there  is  something  strange 


18  SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED 

In  a  shop  with  goods  at  so  wide  a  range 

Each  from  the  other,  as  swords  and  seeds. 

Your  neighbours  must  have  greatly  differing  needs." 
"My  neighbours,"  he  said,  and  he  stroked  his  chin, 
"Live  everywhere  from  here  to  Pekin. 

But  you  are  wrong,  my  sort  of  goods 

Is  but  one  thing  in  all  its  moods." 

He  took  a  shagreen  letter  case 

From  his  pocket,  and  with  charming  grace 

Offered  me  a  printed  card. 

I  read  the  legend,  "Ephraim  Bard. 

Dealer  in  Words."   And  that  was  all. 

I  stared  at  the  letters,  whimsical 

Indeed,  or  was  it  merely  a  jest. 

He  answered  my  unasked  request : 
"All  books  are  either  dreams  or  swords, 

You  can  cut,  or  you  can  drug,  with  words* 

My  firm  is  a  very  ancient  house, 

The  entries  on  my  books  would  rouse 


SWORD   BLADES  AND    POPPY   SEED  19 

Your  wonder,  perhaps  incredulity. 

I  inherited  from  an  ancestry 

Stretching  remotely  back  and  far, 

This  business,  and  my  clients  are 

As  were  those  of  my  grandfather's  days, 

Writers  of  books,  and  poems,  and  plays. 

My  swords  are  tempered  for  every  speech, 

For  fencing  wit,  or  to  carve  a  breach 

Through  old  abuses  the  world  condones. 

In  another  room  are  my  grindstones  and  hones, 

For  whetting  razors  and  putting  a  point 

On  daggers,  sometimes  I  even  anoint 

The  blades  with  a  subtle  poison,  so 

A  twofold  result  may  follow  the  blow. 

These  are  purchased  by  men  who  feel 

The  need  of  stabbing  society's  heel, 

Which  egotism  has  brought  them  to  think 

Is  set  on  their  necks.   I  have  foils  to  pink 

An  adversary  to  quaint  reply, 


20  SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY  SEED 

And  I  have  customers  who  buy 
Scalpels  with  which  to  dissect  the  brains 
And  hearts  of  men.   Ultramundanes 
Even  demand  some  finer  kinds 
To  open  their  own  souls  and  minds. 
But  the  other  half  of  my  business  deals 
With  visions  and  fancies.   Under  seals, 
Sorted,  and  placed  in  vessels  here, 
I  keep  the  seeds  of  an  atmosphere. 
Each  jar  contains  a  different  kind 
Of  poppy  seed.   From  farthest  Ind 
Come  the  purple  flowers,  opium  filled, 
From  which  the  weirdest  myths  are  distilled ; 
My  orient  porcelains  contain  them  all. 
Those  Lowestoft  pitchers  against  the  wall 
Hold  a  lighter  kind  of  bright  conceit ; 
And  those  old  Saxe  vases,  out  of  the  heat 
On  that  lowest  shelf  beside  the  door, 
Have  a  sort  of  Ideal,  "couleur  d'or." 


SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY  SEED  21 

Every  castle  of  the  air 
Sleeps  in  the  fine  black  grains,  and  there 
Are  seeds  for  every  romance,  or  light 
Whiff  of  a  dream  for  a  summer  night* 
I  supply  to  every  want  and  taste." 
'Twas  slowly  said,  in  no  great  haste 
He  seemed  to  push  his  wares,  but  I 
Dumfounded  listened.   By  and  by 
A  log  on  the  fire  broke  in  two. 
He  looked  up  quickly,  "Sir,  and  you  ?" 
I  groped  for  something  I  should  say; 
Amazement  held  me  numb.   "To-day 
You  sweated  at  a  fruitless  task." 
He  spoke  for  me,  "What  do  you  ask  ? 
How  can  I  serve  you  ?  "   "My  kind  host, 
My  penniless  state  was  not  a  boast ; 
I  have  no  money  with  me."   He  smiled. 
"Not  for  that  money  I  beguiled 
You  here ;  you  paid  me  in  advance." 


SWORD   BLADES  AND    POPPY   SEED 

Again  I  felt  as  though  a  trance 
Had  dimmed  my  faculties.   Again 
He  spoke,  and  this  time  to  explain. 

"The  money  I  demand  is  Life, 
Your  nervous  force,  your  joy,  your  strife !" 
What  infamous  proposal  now 
Was  made  me  with  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Bursting  through  my  lethargy, 
Indignantly  I  hurled  the  cry : 

"Is  this  a  nightmare,  or  am  I 
Drunk  with  some  infernal  wine  ? 
I  am  no  Faust,  and  what  is  mine 
Is  what  I  call  my  soul !   Old  Man  ! 
Devil  or  Ghost !  Your  hellish  plan 
Revolts  me.   Let  me  go."   "My  child,5' 
And  the  old  tones  were  very  mild, 

"I  have  no  wish  to  barter  souls; 
My  traffic  does  not  ask  such  tolls. 
I  am  no  devil ;  is  there  one  ? 


SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED  23 

Surely  the  age  of  fear  is  gone. 

We  live  within  a  daylight  world 

Lit  by  the  sun,  where  winds  unfurled 

Sweep  clouds  to  scatter  pattering  rainy 

And  then  blow  back  the  sun  again. 

I  sell  my  fancies,  or  my  swords, 

To  those  who  care  far  more  for  words, 

Ideas,  of  which  they  are  the  sign, 

Than  any  other  life-design. 

Who  buy  of  me  must  simply  pay 

Their  whole  existence  quite  away : 

Their  strength,  their  manhood,  and  their  prime, 

Their  hours  from  morning  till  the  time 

When  evening  comes  on  tiptoe  feet, 

And  losing  life,  think  it  complete ; 

Must  miss  what  other  men  count  being, 

To  gain  the  gift  of  deeper  seeing ; 

Must  spurn  all  ease,  all  hindering  love, 

All  which  could  hold  or  bind ;  must  prove 


24  SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED 

The  farthest  boundaries  of  thought, 
And  shun  no  end  which  these  have  brought ; 
Then  die  in  satisfaction,  knowing 
That  what  was  sown  was  worth  the  sowing. 
I  claim  for  all  the  goods  I  sell 
That  they  will  serve  their  purpose  well, 
And  though  you  perish,  they  will  live. 
Full  measure  for  your  pay  I  give. 
To-day  you  worked,  you  thought,  in  vain. 
What  since  has  happened  is  the  train 
Your  toiling  brought.   I  spoke  to  you 
For  my  share  of  the  bargain,  due." 
"My  life  !  And  is  that  all  you  crave 
In  pay  ?   What  even  childhood  gave  ! 
I  have  been  dedicate  from  youth. 
Before  my  God  I  speak  the  truth  ! " 
Fatigue,  excitement  of  the  past 
Few  hours  broke  me  down  at  last. 
All  day  I  had  forgot  to  eat, 


SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED  25 

My  nerves  betrayed  me,  lacking  meat. 

I  bowed  my  head  and  felt  the  storm 

Plough  shattering  through  my  prostrate  form. 

The  tearless  sobs  tore  at  my  heart. 

My  host  withdrew  himself  apart ; 

Busied  among  his  crockery, 

He  paid  no  farther  heed  to  me. 

Exhausted,  spent,  I  huddled  there, 

Within  the  arms  of  the  old  carved  chair. 

A  long  half-hour  dragged  away, 
And  then  I  heard  a  kind  voice  say, 
"The  day  will  soon  be  dawning,  when 
You  must  begin  to  work  again. 
Here  are  the  things  which  you  require." 
By  the  fading  light  of  the  dying  fire, 
And  by  the  guttering  candle's  flare, 
I  saw  the  old  man  standing  there. 
He  handed  me  a  packet,  tied 


26  SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY   SEED 

With  crimson  tape,  and  sealed.    "Inside 

Are  seeds  of  many  differing  flowers, 

To  occupy  your  utmost  powers 

Of  storied  vision,  and  these  swords 

Are  the  finest  which  my  shop  affords. 

Go  home  and  use  them ;  do  not  spare 

Yourself ;  let  that  be  all  your  care. 

Whatever  you  have  means  to  buy 

Be  very  sure  I  can  supply." 

He  slowly  walked  to  the  window,  flung 

It  open,  and  in  the  grey  air  rung 

The  sound  of  distant  matin  bells. 

I  took  my  parcels.   Then,  as  tells 

An  ancient  mumbling  monk  his  beads, 

I  tried  to  thank  for  his  courteous  deeds 

My  strange  old  friend.   "Nay,  do  not  talk," 

He  urged  me,  "you  have  a  long  walk 

Before  you.   Good-by  and  Good-day  !" 

And  gently  sped  upon  my  way 


SWORD   BLADES   AND   POPPY   SEED  27 

I  stumbled  out  in  the  morning  hush, 
As  down  the  empty  street  a  flush 
Ran  level  from  the  rising  sun. 
Another  day  was  just  begun. 


SWORD  BLADES 


THE  CAPTURED  GODDESS 

OVER  the  housetops, 

Above  the  rotating  chimney-pots, 

I  have  seen  a  shiver  of  amethyst, 

And  blue  and  cinnamon  have  flickered 

A  moment, 

At  the  far  end  of  a  dusty  street. 

Through  sheeted  rain 
Has  come  a  lustre  of  crimson, 
And  I  have  watched  moonbeams 
Hushed  by  a  film  of  palest  green. 

It  was  her  wings, 

Goddess ! 

Who  stepped  over  the  clouds, 


32  SWORD   BLADES 

And  laid  her  rainbow  feathers 
Aslant  on  the  currents  of  the  air. 

I  followed  her  for  long, 

With  gazing  eyes  and  stumbling  feet. 

I  eared  not  where  she  led  me, 

My  eyes  were  full  of  colours : 

Saffrons,  rubies,  the  yellows  of  beryls, 

And  the  indigo-blue  of  quartz ; 

Flights  of  rose,  layers  of  chrysoprase, 

Points  of  orange,  spirals  of  vermilion, 

The  spotted  gold  of  tiger-lily  petals, 

The  loud  pink  of  bursting  hydrangeas. 

I  followed, 

And  watched  for  the  flashing  of  her  wings, 

In  the  city  I  found  her, 

The  narrow-streeted  city. 

In  the  market-place  I  came  upon  her, 


SWORD  BLADES  33 

Bound  and  trembling. 

Her  fluted  wings  were  fastened  to  her  sides  with 

cords, 

She  was  naked  and  cold, 
For  that  day  the  wind  blew 
Without  sunshine. 

Men  chaffered  for  her, 

They  bargained  in  silver  and  gold, 

In  copper,  in  wheat, 

And  called  their  bids  across  the  market-place. 

The  Goddess  wept. 

Hiding  my  face  I  fled, 

And  the  grey  wind  hissed  behind  me, 

Along  the  narrow  streets. 


34  SWORD  BLADES 

THE  PRECINCT.    ROCHESTER 

THE  tall  yellow  hollyhocks  stand, 

Still  and  straight, 

With  their  round  blossoms  spread  open, 

In  the  quiet  sunshine. 

And  still  is  the  old  Roman  wall, 

Rough  with  jagged  bits  of  flint, 

And  jutting  stones, 

Old  and  cragged, 

Quite  still  in  its  antiquity. 

The  pear-trees  press  their  branches  against  it, 

And  feeling  it  warm  and  kindly, 

The  little  pears  ripen  to  yellow  and  red. 

They  hang  heavy,  bursting  with  juice, 

Against  the  wall. 

So  old,  so  still ! 


SWORD   BLADES  35 

The  sky  is  still. 

The  clouds  make  no  sound 

As  they  slide  away 

Beyond  the  Cathedral  Tower, 

To  the  river, 

And  the  sea. 

It  is  very  quiet, 

Very  sunny. 

The  myrtle  flowers  stretch  themselves  in  the 

sunshine, 

But  make  no  sound. 
The  roses  push  their  little  tendrils  up, 
And  climb  higher  and  higher. 
In  spots  they  have  climbed  over  the  wall. 
But  they  are  very  still, 
They  do  not  seem  to  move. 
And  the  old  wall  carries  them 


36  SWORD   BLADES 

Without  effort,  and  quietly 

Ripens  and  shields  the  vines  and  blossoms. 

A  bird  in  a  plane-tree 

Sings  a  few  notes, 

Cadenced  and  perfect 

They  weave  into  the  silence. 

The  Cathedral  bell  knocks, 

One,  two,  three,  and  again, 

And  then  again. 

It  is  a  quiet  sound, 

Calling  to  prayer, 

Hardly  scattering  the  stillness, 

Only  making  it  close  in  more  densely. 

The  gardener  picks  ripe  gooseberries 

For  the  Dean's  supper  to-night. 

It  is  very  quiet, 

Very  regulated  and  mellow. 

But  the  wall  is  old, 


SWORD   BLADES  37 

It  has  known  many  days. 
It  is  a  Roman  wall, 
Left-over  and  forgotten. 

Beyond  the  Cathedral  Close 

Yelp  and  mutter  the  discontents  of  people  not  mellow, 

Not  well-regulated. 

People  who  care  more  for  bread  than  for  beauty, 

Who  would  break  the  tombs  of  saints, 

And  give  the  painted  windows  of  churches 

To  their  children  for  toys. 
|  People  who  say : 
"They  are  dead,  we  live  ! 

The  world  is  for  the  living." 

Fools  !  It  is  always  the  dead  who  breed. 
Crush  the  ripe  fruit,  and  cast  it  aside, 
Yet  its  seeds  shall  fructify, 
And  trees  rise  where  your  huts  were  standing. 


38  SWORD   BLADES 

But  the  little  people  are  ignorant, 
They  chaffer,  and  swarm. 
They  gnaw  like  rats, 

And  the  foundations  of  the  Cathedral  are  honey 
combed. 

The  Dean  is  in  the  Chapter  House ; 

He  is  reading  the  architect's  bill 

For  the  completed  restoration  of  the  Cathedral. 

He  will  have  ripe  gooseberries  for  supper, 

And  then  he  will  walk  up  and  down  the  path 

By  the  wall, 

And  admire  the  snapdragons  and  dahlias, 

Thinking  how  quiet  and  peaceful 

The  garden  is. 

The  old  wall  will  watch  him, 

Very  quietly  and  patiently  it  will  watch. 

For  the  wall  is  old, 

It  is  a  Roman  wall. 


SWORD  BLADES  89 


THE  CYCLISTS 

SPREAD  on  the  roadway, 
With  open-blown  jackets, 
Like  black,  soaring  pinions, 
They  swoop  down  the  hillside, 
The  Cyclists. 

Seeming  dark-plumaged 
Birds,  after  carrion, 
Careening  and  circling, 
Over  the  dying 
Of  England. 


40  SWORD   BLADES 

She  lies  with  her  bosom 
Beneath  them,  no  longer 
The  Dominant  Mother, 
The  Virile  —  but  rotting 
Before  time. 

The  smell  of  her,  tainted, 
Has  bitten  their  nostrils. 
Exultant  they  hover, 
And  shadow  the  sun  with 
Foreboding. 


SWORD   BLADES  41 


SUNSHINE   THROUGH   A    COBWEBBED 
WINDOW 

WHAT  charm  is  yours,  you  faded  old-world  tapestries, 
Of  outworn,  childish  mysteries, 

Vague  pageants  woven  on  a  web  of  dream  ! 

And  we,  pushing  and  fighting  in  the  turbid  stream 
Of  modern  life,  find  solace  in  your  tarnished  broideries. 

Old  lichened  halls,  sun-shaded  by  huge  cedar-trees, 
The  layered  branches  horizontal  stretched,  like 

Japanese 

Dark-banded  prints.   Carven  cathedrals,  on  a  sky, 
Of  faintest  colour,  where  the  gothic  spires  fly 
And  sway  like  masts,  against  a  shifting  breeze. 


42  SWORD   BLADES 

Worm-eaten  pages,  clasped  in  old  brown  vellum, 

shrunk 

From  over-handling,  by  some  anxious  monk. 
Or  Virgin's  Hours,  bright  with  gold  and  graven 
With  flowers,  and  rare  birds,  and  all  the  Saints  of 

Heaven, 

And  Noah's  ark  stuck  on  Ararat,  when  all  the  world 
had  sunk. 

They  soothe  us  like  a  song,  heard  in  a  garden,  sung 
By  youthful  minstrels,  on  the  moonlight  flung 
In  cadences  and  falls,  to  ease  a  queen, 
Widowed  and  childless,  cowering  in  a  screen 
Of  myrtles,  whose  life  hangs  with  all  its  threads 
unstrung. 


BWOKD   BLADES  43 

A   LONDON   THOROUGHFARE.    2   A.JVL 

THEY  have  watered  the  street, 

It  shines  in  the  glare  of  lamps, 

Cold,  white  lamps, 

And  lies 

Like  a  slow-moving  river, 

Barred  with  silver  and  black. 

Cabs  go  down  it, 

One, 

And  then  another. 

Between  them  I  hear  the  shuffling  of  feeto 

Tramps  doze  on  the  window-ledges, 

Night-walkers  pass  along  the  sidewalks. 

The  city  is  squalid  and  sinister, 

With  the  silver-barred  street  in  the  midst, 

Slow-moving, 

A  river  leading  nowhere.' 


44  SWORD  BLADES 

Opposite  my  window, 

The  moon  cuts, 

Clear  and  round, 

Through  the  plum-coloured  night. 

She  cannot  light  the  city ; 

It  is  too  bright. 

It  has  white  lamps, 

And  glitters  coldly. 

I  stand  in  the  window  and  watch  the  moon* 

She  is  thin  and  lustreless, 

But  I  love  her. 

I  know  the  moon, 

And  this  is  an  alien  city. 


SWORD   BLADES  45 

ASTIGMATISM 

To  EZRA  POUND 

WITH   MUCH   FRIENDSHIP  AND   ADMIRATION  AND 
SOME   DIFFERENCES   OF   OPINION 

THE  Poet  took  his  walking-stick 

Of  fine  and  polished  ebony. 

Set  in  the  close-grained  wood 

Were  quaint  devices ; 

Patterns  in  ambers, 

And  in  the  clouded  green  of  jades. 

The  top  was  of  smooth,  yellow  ivory, 

And  a  tassel  of  tarnished  gold 

Hung  by  a  faded  cord  from  a  hole 

Pierced  in  the  hard  wood, 

Circled  with  silver. 

For  years  the  Poet  had  wrought  upon  this  cane. 

His  wealth  had  gone  to  enrich  it, 


46  SWORD   BLADES 

His  experiences  to  pattern  it, 

His  labour  to  fashion  and  burnish  it. 

To  him  it  was  perfect, 

A  work  of  art  and  a  weapon, 

A  delight  and  a  defence. 

The  Poet  took  his  walking-stick 

And  walked  abroad. 

Peace  be  with  you,  Brother. 

The  Poet  came  to  a  meadow. 
Sifted  through  the  grass  were  daisies, 
Open-mouthed,  wondering,  they  gazed  at  the  sun. 
The  Poet  struck  them  with  his  cane. 
The  little  heads  flew  off,  and  they  lay 
Dying,  open-mouthed  and  wondering, 
On  the  hard  ground. 
"They  are  useless.   They  are  not  roses,"  said  the  Poet. 


SWORD   BLADES  47 

Peace  be  with  you,  Brother.   Go  your  ways. 

The  Poet  came  to  a  stream. 

Purple  and  blue  flags  waded  in  the  water; 

In  among  them  hopped  the  speckled  frogs ; 

The  wind  slid  through  them,  rustling. 

The  Poet  lifted  his  cane, 

And  the  iris  heads  fell  into  the  water. 

They  floated  away,  torn  and  drowning. 
"Wretched  flowers,"  said  the  Poet, 
"They  are  not  roses." 

Peace  be  with  you,  Brother.   It  is  your  affair. 

The  Poet  came  to  a  garden. 
Dahlias  ripened  against  a  wall, 
Gillyflowers  stood  up  bravely  for  all  their  short 
stature, 


48  SWORD   BLADES 

And  a  trumpet- vine  covered  an  arbour 

With  the  red  and  gold  of  its  blossoms. 

Red  and  gold  like  the  brass  notes  of  trumpets. 

The  Poet  knocked  off  the  stiff  heads  of  the  dahlias, 

And  his  cane  lopped  the  gillyflowers  at  the  ground. 

Then  he  severed  the  trumpet-blossoms  from  their 

stems. 

Red  and  gold  they  lay  scattered, 
Red  and  gold,  as  on  a  battle  field ; 
Red  and  gold,  prone  and  dying. 
"They  were  not  roses,"  said  the  Poet. 

Peace  be  with  you,  Brother. 

But  behind  you  is  destruction,  and  waste  places. 

The  Poet  came  home  at  evening, 

And  in  the  candle-light 

He  wiped  and  polished  his  cane. 

The  orange  candle  flame  leaped  in  the  yellow  ambers, 


SWORD   BLADES  49 

And  made  the  jades  undulate  like  green  pools. 
It  played  along  the  bright  ebony, 
And  glowed  in  the  top  of  cream-coloured  ivory. 
But  these  things  were  dead, 
Only  the  candle-light  made  them  seem  to  move. 
'It  is  a  pity  there  were  no  roses,"  said  the  Poet. 

Peace  be  with  you,  Brother.  You  have  chosen  your 
part. 


50  SWORD  BLADES 

THE  COAL  PICKER 

HE  perches  in  the  slime,  inert, 
Bedaubed  with  iridescent  dirt. 
The  oil  upon  the  puddles  dries 
To  colours  like  a  peacock's  eyes, 
And  half -submerged  tomato-cans 
Shine  scaly,  as  leviathans 
Oozily  crawling  through  the  mud. 
The  ground  is  here  and  there  bestud 
With  lumps  of  only  part-burned  coal. 
His  duty  is  to  glean  the  whole, 
To  pick  them  from  the  filth,  each  one, 
To  hoard  them  for  the  hidden  sun 
Which  glows  within  each  fiery  core 
And  waits  to  be  made  free  once  more. 
Their  sharp  and  glistening  edges  cut 
His  stiffened  fingers.   Through  the  smut 


SWORD   BLADES  51 

Gleam  red  the  wounds  which  will  not  shut. 

Wet  through  and  shivering  he  kneels 

And  digs  the  slippery  coals ;  like  eels 

They  slide  about.   His  force  all  spent, 

He  counts  his  small  accomplishment. 

A  half-a-dozen  clinker-coals 

Which  still  have  fire  in  their  souls. 

Fire  !   And  in  his  thought  there  burns 

The  topaz  fire  of  votive  urns. 

He  sees  it  fling  from  hill  to  hill, 

And  still  consumed,  is  burning  still. 

Higher  and  higher  leaps  the  flame, 

The  smoke  an  ever-shifting  frame. 

He  sees  a  Spanish  Castle  old, 

With  silver  steps  and  paths  of  gold. 

From  myrtle  bowers  comes  the  plash 

Of  fountains,  and  the  emerald  flash 

Of  parrots  in  the  orange  trees, 

Whose  blossoms  pasture  humming  bees. 


2  SWORD   BLADES 

He  knows  he  feeds  the  urns  whose  smoke 

Bears  visions,  that  his  master-stroke 

Is  out  of  dirt  and  misery 

To  light  the  fire  of  poesy. 

He  sees  the  glory,  yet  he  knows 

That  others  cannot  see  his  shows. 

To  them  his  smoke  is  sightless,  black, 

His  votive  vessels  but  a  pack 

Of  old  discarded  shards,  his  fire 

A  peddler's ;  still  to  him  the  pyre 

Is  incensed,  an  enduring  goal ! 

He  sighs  and  grubs  another  coal. 


SWORD   BLADES  53 

STORM-RACKED 

How  should  I  sing  when  buffeting  salt  waves 
And  stung  with  bitter  surges,  in  whose  might 
I  toss,  a  cockleshell  ?   The  dreadful  night 

Marshals  its  undefeated  dark  and  raves 

In  brutal  madness,  reeling  over  graves 

Of  vanquished  men,  long-sunken  out  of  sight, 
Sent  wailing  down  to  glut  the  ghoulish  sprite 

Who  haunts  foul  seaweed  forests  and  their  caves. 
No  parting  cloud  reveals  a  watery  star, 

My  cries  are  washed  away  upon  the  wind, 

My  cramped  and  blistering  hands  can  find  no  spar, 

My  eyes  with  hope  o'erstrained,  are  growing  blind. 
But  painted  on  the  sky  great  visions  burn, 
My  voice,  oblation  from  a  shattered  urn  ! 


54  SWORD   BLADES 

CONVALESCENCE 

FROM  out  the  dragging  vastness  of  the  sea, 

Wave-fettered,  bound  in  sinuous,  seaweed  strands, 
He  toils  toward  the  rounding  beach,  and  stands 

One  moment,  white  and  dripping,  silently, 

Cut  like  a  cameo  in  lazuli, 

Then  falls,  betrayed  by  shifting  shells,  and  lands 
Prone  in  the  jeering  water,  and  his  hands 

Clutch  for  support  where  no  support  can  be. 
So  up,  and  down,  and  forward,  inch  by  inch, 

He  gains  upon  the  shore,  where  poppies  glow 

And  sandflies  dance  their  little  lives  away. 
The  sucking  waves  retard,  and  tighter  clinch 

The  weeds  about  him,  but  the  land-winds  blow, 

And  in  the  sky  there  blooms  the  sun  of  May. 


SWORD   BLADES  55 

PATIENCE 

BE  patient  with  you  ? 

When  the  stooping  sky 
Leans  down  upon  the  hills 
And  tenderly,  as  one  who  soothing  stills 

An  anguish,  gathers  earth  to  lie 
Embraced  and  girdled.   Do  the  sun-filled  men 

Feel  patience  then  ? 

Be  patient  with  you  ? 

When  the  snow-girt  earth 
Cracks  to  let  through  a  spurt 
Of  sudden  green,  and  from  the  muddy  dirt 

A  snowdrop  leaps,  how  mark  its  worth 
To  eyes  frost-hardened,  and  do  weary  men 

Feel  patience  then  ? 


66  SWORD   BLADES 

Be  patient  with  you  ? 

When  pain's  iron  bars 
Their  rivets  tighten,  stern 
To  bend  and  break  their  victims ;  as  they  turn, 

Hopeless,  there  stand  the  purple  jars 
Of  night  to  spill  oblivion.   Do  these  men 

Feel  patience  then  ? 

Be  patient  with  you  ? 

You  !  My  sun  and  moon  ! 
My  basketful  of  flowers  ! 
My  money-bag  of  shining  dreams  !  My  hours, 

Windless  and  still,  of  afternoon  ! 
You  are  my  world  and  I  your  citizen. 

What  meaning  can  have  patience  then  ? 


SWORD   BLADES  57 

APOLOGY 

BE  not  angry  with  me  that  I  bear 
Your  colours  everywhere, 
All  through  each  crowded  street, 

And  meet 

The  wonder-light  in  every  eye, 
As  I  go  by. 

Each  plodding  wayfarer  looks  up  to  gaze, 
Blinded  by  rainbow  haze, 
The  stuff  of  happiness, 

No  less, 
Which  wraps  me  in  its  glad-hued  folds 

Of  peacock  golds. 

Before  my  feet  the  dusty,  rough-paved  way 
Flushes  beneath  its  gray. 


58  SWORD   BLADES 

My  steps  fall  ringed  with  light, 

So  bright, 
It  seems  a  myriad  suns  are  strown 

About  the  town. 

Around  me  is  the  sound  of  steepled  bells, 
And  rich  perfumed  smells 
Hang  like  a  wind-forgotten  cloud, 

And  shroud 
Me  from  close  contact  with  the  world. 

I  dwell  impearled. 

You  blazon  me  with  jewelled  insignia. 

; 
A  flaming  nebula 

Rims  in  my  life.   And  yet 

You  set 
The  word  upon  me,  unconfessed 

To  go  unguessed. 


SWORD   BLADES  59 

A  PETITION 

I  PRAY  to  be  the  tool  which  to  your  hand 
Long  use  has  shaped  and  moulded  till  it  be 
Apt  for  your  need,  and,  unconsideringly, 

You  take  it  for  its  service.   I  demand 

To  be  forgotten  in  the  woven  strand 

Which  grows  the  multi-coloured  tapestry 

Of  your  bright  life,  and  through  its  tissues  lie 

A  hidden,  strong,  sustaining,  grey-toned  band. 
I  wish  to  dwell  around  your  daylight  dreams, 

The  railing  to  the  stairway  of  the  clouds, 

To  guard  your  steps  securely  up,  where  streams 

A  faery  moonshine  washing  pale  the  crowds 
Of  pointed  stars.  Remember  not  whereby 
You  mount,  protected,  to  the  far-flung  sky. 


60  SWORD   BLADES 

A  BLOCKHEAD 

BEFORE  me  lies  a  mass  of  shapeless  days, 
Unseparated  atoms,  and  I  must 
Sort  them  apart  and  live  them.   Sifted  dust 

Covers  the  formless  heap.   Reprieves,  delays, 

There  are  non,  ever.   As  a  monk  who  prays 
The  sliding  beads  asunder,  so  I  thrust 
Each  tasteless  particle  aside,  and  just 

Begin  again  the  task  which  never  stays. 
And  I  have  known  a  glory  of  great  suns, 

When  days  flashed  by,  pulsing  with  joy  and  fire ! 

Drunk  bubbled  wine  in  goblets  of  desire, 

And  felt  the  whipped  blood  laughing  as  it  runs ! 

Spilt  is  that  liquor,  my  too  hasty  hand 

Threw  down  the  cup,  and  did  not  understand 


SWORD   BLADES  61 

STUPIDITY 

DEAREST,  forgive  that  with  my  clumsy  touch 

I  broke  and  bruised  your  rose. 

I  hardly  could  suppose 
It  were  a  thing  so  fragile  that  my  clutch 
Could  kill  it,  thus. 

It  stood  so  proudly  up  upon  its  stem, 

I  knew  no  thought  of  fear, 

And  coming  very  near 
Fell,  overbalanced,  to  your  garment's  hem, 
Tearing  it  down. 

Now,  stooping,  I  upgather,  one  by  one, 

The  crimson  petals,  all 

Outspread  about  my  fall. 

They  hold  their  fragrance  still,  a  blood-red  cone 
Of  memory. 


62  SWORD   BLADES 

And  with  my  words  I  carve  a  little  jar 

To  keep  their  scented  dust, 

Which,  opening,  you  must 

Breathe  to  your  soul,  and,  breathing,  know  me  far 
More  grieved  than  you. 


SWORD   BLADES  63 

IRONY 

AN  arid  daylight  shines  along  the  beach 
Dried  to  a  grey  monotony  of  tone, 
And  stranded  jelly-fish  melt  soft  upon 

The  sun-baked  pebbles,  far  beyond  their  reach 

Sparkles  a  wet,  reviving  sea.   Here  bleach 
The  skeletons  of  fishes,  every  bone 
Polished  and  stark,  like  traceries  of  stone, 

The  joints  and  knuckles  hardened  each  to  each. 
And  they  are  dead  while  waiting  for  the  sea, 
The  moon-pursuing  sea,  to  come  again. 

Their  hearts  are  blown  away  on  the  hot  breeze. 
Only  the  shells  and  stones  can  wait  to  be 
Washed  bright.   For  living  things,  who  suffer  pain, 
not  endure  till  time  can  bring  them  ease. 


64  SWORD   BLADES 

HAPPINESS 

HAPPINESS,  to  some,  elation ; 
Is,  to  others,  mere  stagnation. 
Days  of  passive  somnolence, 
At  its  wildest,  indolence. 
Hours  of  empty  quietness, 
No  delight,  and  no  distress. 

Happiness  to  me  is  wine, 
Effervescent,  superfine. 
Full  of  tang  and  fiery  pleasure, 
Far  too  hot  to  leave  me  leisure 
For  a  single  thought  beyond  it. 
Drunk!  Forgetful!  This  the  bond :  it 
Means  to  give  one's  soul  to  gain 
Life's  quintessence.   Even  pain 
Pricks  to  livelier  living,  then 


SWORD   BLADES  65 

Wakes  the  nerves  to  laugh  again, 
Rapture's  self  is  three  parts  sorrow. 
Although  we  must  die  to-morrow, 
Losing  every  thought  but  this ; 
Torn,  triumphant,  drowned  in  bliss. 

Happiness  :  We  rarely  feel  it. 
I  would  buy  it,  beg  it,  steal  it, 
Pay  in  coins  of  dripping  blood 
For  this  one  transcendent  good. 


DO  SWORD  BLADES 

THE  LAST  QUARTER  OF  THE  MOON 

How  long  shall  I  tarnish  the  mirror  of  life, 
A  spatter  of  rust  on  its  polished  steel ! 

The  seasons  reel 

Like  a  goaded  wheel. 
Half-numb,  half-maddened,  my  days  are  strife. 

The  night  is  sliding  towards  the  dawn, 

And  upturned  hills  crouch  at  autumn's  knees. 

A  torn  moon  flees 

Through  the  hemlock  trees, 
The  hours  have  gnawed  it  to  feed  their  spawn. 

Pursuing  and  jeering  the  misshapen  thing 
A  rabble  of  clouds  flares  out  of  the  east. 

Like  dogs  unleashed 

After  a  beast, 
They  stream  on  the  sky,  an  outflung  string. 


SWORD   BLADES  67 

A  desolate  wind,  through  the  unpeopled  dark, 
Shakes  the  bushes  and  whistles  through  empty  nests, 

And  the  fierce  unrests 

I  keep  as  guests 
Crowd  my  brain  with  corpses,  pallid  and  stark. 

Leave  me  in  peace,  O  Spectres,  who  haunt 
My  labouring  mind,  I  have  fought  and  failed. 

I  have  not  quailed, 

I  was  all  unmailed 
And  naked  I  strove,  'tis  my  only  vaunt. 

The  moon  drops  into  the  silver  day 
As  waking  out  of  her  swoon  she  comes. 

I  hear  the  drums 

Of  millenniums 
Beating  the  mornings  I  still  must  stay. 


68  SWORD   BLADES 

The  years  I  must  watch  go  in  and  out, 
While  I  build  with  water,  and  dig  in  air, 

And  the  trumpets  blare 

Hollow  despair, 
The  shuddering  trumpets  of  utter  rout. 

An  atom  tossed  in  a  chaos  made 

Of  yeasting  worlds,  which  bubble  and  foam. 

Whence  have  I  come  ? 

What  would  be  home  ? 
I  hear  no  answer.   I  am  afraid  ! 

I  crave  to  be  lost  like  a  wind-blown  flame. 
Pushed  into  nothingness  by  a  breath, 

And  quench  in  a  wreath 

Of  engulfing  death 
This  fight  for  a  God,  or  this  devil's  game. 


SWORD    BLADES 


A  TALE  OF  STARVATION 

THERE  once  was  a  man  whom  the  gods  didn't  love, 

And  a  disagreeable  man  was  he. 

He  loathed  his  neighbours,  and  his  neighbours  hated 
him, 

And  he  cursed  eternally. 

He  damned  the  sun,  and  he  damned  the  stars, 

And  he  blasted  the  winds  in  the  sky. 
He  sent  to  Hell  every  green,  growing  thing, 

And  he  raved  at  the  birds  as  they  fly. 

His  oaths  were  many,  and  his  range  was  wide, 

He  swore  in  fancy  ways ; 
But  his  meaning  was  plain :  that  no  created  thing 

Was  other  than  a  hurt  to  his  gaze. 


70  SWORD   BLADES 

He  dwelt  all  alone,  underneath  a  leaning  hill, 
And  windows  toward  the  hill  there  were  none, 

And  on  the  other  side  they  were  white-washed  thick, 
To  keep  out  every  spark  of  the  sun. 

When  he  went  to  market  he  walked  all  the  way 

Blaspheming  at  the  path  he  trod. 
He  cursed  at  those  he  bought  of,  and  swore  at  those 
he  sold  to, 

By  all  the  names  he  knew  of  God. 

For  his  heart  was  soured  in  his  weary  old  hide, 
And  his  hopes  had  curdled  in  his  breast. 

His  friend  had  been  untrue,  and  his  love  had  thrown 

him  over 
For  the  chinking  money-bags  she  liked  best. 


SWORD   BLADES  71 

The  rats  had  devoured  the  contents  of  his  grain-bin, 

The  deer  had  trampled  on  his  corn, 
His  brook  had  shrivelled  in  a  summer  drought, 

And  his  sheep  had  died  unshorn. 

His  hens  wouldn't  lay,  and  his  cow  broke  loose, 

And  his  old  horse  perished  of  a  colic. 
In  the  loft  his  wheat-bags  were  nibbled  into 
holes 

By  little,  glutton  mice  on  a  frolic. 

So  he  slowly  lost  all  he  ever  had, 

And  the  blood  in  his  body  dried. 
Shrunken  and  mean  he  still  lived  on, 

And  cursed  that  future  which  had  lied. 


72  SWORD   BLADES 

One  day  he  was  digging,  a  spade  or  two, 

As  his  aching  back  could  lift, 

When  he  saw  something  glisten  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trench, 

And  to  get  it  out  he  made  great  shift. 

So  he  dug,  and  he  delved,  with  care  and  pain, 
And  the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  taut. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  when  every  bone  cracked, 
He  gathered  up  what  he  had  sought. 

A  dim  old  vase  of  crusted  glass, 

Prismed  while  it  lay  buried  deep. 
Shifting  reds  and  greens,  like  a  pigeon's  neck, 

At  the  touch  of  the  sun  began  to  leap. 


SWORD   BLADES  73 

It  was  dull  in  the  tree-shade,  but  glowing  in  the  light ; 

Flashing  like  an  opal-stone, 

Carved  into  a  flagon ;  and  the  colours  glanced  and 
ran, 

Where  at  first  there  had  seemed  to  be  none. 

It  had  handles  on  each  side  to  bear  it  up, 

And  a  belly  for  the  gurgling  wine. 
Its  neck  was  slender,  and  its  mouth  was  wide, 

And  its  lip  was  curled  and  fine. 

The  old  man  saw  it  in  the  sun's  bright  stare 
And  the  colours  started  up  through  the  crust, 

And  he  who  had  cursed  at  the  yellow  sun 
Held  the  flask  to  it  and  wiped  away  the  dust, 


74  SWORD    BLADES 

And  he  bore  the  flask  to  the  brightest  spot, 
Where  the  shadow  of  the  hill  fell  clear ; 

And  he  turned  the  flask,  and  he  looked  at  the  flask, 
And  the  sun  shone  without  his  sneer. 

Then  he  carried  it  home,  and  put  it  on  a  shelf, 

But  it  was  only  grey  in  the  gloom. 
So  he  fetched  a  pail,  and  a  bit  of  cloth, 

And  he  went  outside  with  a  broom. 

And  he  washed  his  windows  just  to  let  the  sun 

Lie  upon  his  new-found  vase ; 
And  when  evening  came,,  he  moved  it  down 

And  put  it  on  a  table  near  the  place 

Where  a  candle  fluttered  in  a  draught  from  the  door. 

The  old  man  forgot  to  swear, 
Watching  its  shadow  grown  a  mammoth  size, 

Dancing  in  the  kitchen  there. 


SWORD   BLADES  75 

He  forgot  to  revile  the  sun  next  morning 
When  he  found  his  vase  afire  in  its  light. 

And  he  carried  it  out  of  the  house  that  day, 
And  kept  it  close  beside  him  until  night. 

And  so  it  happened  from  day  to  day. 

The  old  man  fed  his  life 

On  the  beauty  of  his  vase,  on  its  perfect  shape. 
/And  his  soul  forgot  its  former  strife. 

And  the  village-folk  came  and  begged  to  see 
The  flagon  which  was  dug  from  the  ground. 

And  the  old  man  never  thought  of  an  oath,  in  his  joy 
At  showing  what  he  had  found. 

One  day  the  master  of  the  village  school 

Passed  him  as  he  stooped  at  toil, 
Hoeing  for  a  bean-row,  and  at  his  side 

Was  the  vase,  on  the  turned-up  soil. 


76  SWORD   BLADES 

"My  friend,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  pompous  and  kind, 
"That's  a  valuable  thing  you  have  there, 
But  it  might  get  broken  out  of  doors, 
It  should  meet  with  the  utmost  care. 

What  are  you  doing  with  it  out  here  ?" 
"Why,  Sir,"  said  the  poor  old  man, 
"I  like  to  have  it  about,  do  you  see  ? 
To  be  with  it  all  I  can/' 

"You  will  smash  it,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  sternly, 

right, 

"Mark  my  words  and  see  !" 
And  he  walked  away,  while  the  old  man  looked 
At  his  treasure  despondingly. 


SWORD    BLADES  77 

Then  he  smiled  to  himself,  for  it  was  his  ! 

He  had  toiled  for  it,  and  now  he  cared. 
Yes  !  loved  its  shape,  and  its  subtle,  swift  hues, 

Which  his  own  hard  work  had  bared. 

He  would  carry  it  round  with  him  everywhere, 

As  it  gave  him  joy  to  do. 
A  fragile  vase  should  not  stand  in  a  bean-row  ! 

Who  would  dare  to  say  so  ?   Who  ? 

Then  his  heart  was  rested,  and  his  fears  gave 
way, 

And  he  bent  to  his  hoe  again.  .  .  . 
A  clod  rolled  down,  and  his  foot  slipped  back* 

And  he  lurched  with  a  cry  of  pain. 


78  SWORD    BLADES 

For  the  blade  of  the  hoe  crashed  into  glass, 
And  the  vase  fell  to  iridescent  sherds. 

The  old  man's  body  heaved  with  slow,  dry  sobse 
He  did  not  curse,  he  had  no  words. 

He  gathered  the  fragments,  one  by  one, 

And  his  fingers  were  cut  and  torn. 
Then  he  made  a  hole  in  the  very  place 

Whence  the  beautiful  vase  had  been  borne. 

He  covered  the  hole,  and  he  patted  it  down, 
Then  he  hobbled  to  his  house  and  shut  the  door. 

He  tore  up  his  coat  and  nailed  it  at  the  windows 
That  no  beam  of  light  should  cross  the  floor. 

He  sat  down  in  front  of  the  empty  hearth, 

And  he  neither  eat  nor  drank. 
In  three  days  they  found  him,  dead  and  cold, 

And  they  said :  "What  a  queer  old  crank  !" . 


SWORD  BLADES  79 

THE  FOREIGNER 

HAVE  at  you,  you  Devils  ! 

My  back's  to  this  tree, 
For  you're  nothing  so  nice 

That  the  hind-side  of  me 
Would  escape  your  assault. 

Come  on  now,  all  three  ! 

Here's  a  dandified  gentleman, 

Rapier  at  point, 
And  a  wrist  which  whirls  round 

Like  a  circular  joint. 
A  spatter  of  blood,  man  ! 

That's  just  to  anoint 

And  make  supple  your  limbs. 
'Tis  a  pity  the  silk 


80  SWORD   BLADES 

Of  your  waistcoat  is  stained. 

Why  !  Your  heart's  full  of  milk, 
And  so  full,  it  spills  over  ! 

I'm  not  of  your  ilk. 

You  said  so,  and  laughed 
At  my  old-fashioned  hose, 

At  the  cut  of  my  hair, 
At  the  length  of  my  nose. 

To  carve  it  to  pattern 
I  think  you  propose. 

Your  pardon,  young  Sir, 
But  my  nose  and  my  sword 

Are  proving  themselves 
In  quite  perfect  accord. 

I  grieve  to  have  spotted 
Your  shirt.  On  my  word ! 


SWORD   BLADES  81 

And  hullo!  You  Bully! 

That  blade's  not  a  stick 
To  slash  right  and  left, 

And  my  skull  is  too  thick 
To  be  cleft  with  such  cuffs 

Of  a  sword.   Now  a  lick 

Down  the  side  of  your  face. 

What  a  pretty,  red  line  ! 
Tell  the  taverns  that  scar 

Was  an  honour.   Don't  whine 

That  a  stranger  has  marked  you. 
*  *  *  * 

The  tree's  there,  You  Swine  ! 

Did  you  think  to  get  in 

At  the  back,  while  your  friends 

Made  a  little  diversion 
In  front  ?  So  it  ends, 


82  SWORD   BLADES 

With  your  sword  clattering  down 
On  the  ground.   'Tis  amends 

I  make  for  your  courteous 

Reception  of  me, 
A  foreigner,  landed 

From  over  the  sea. 
Your  welcome  was  fervent 

I  think  you'll  agree. 

My  shoes  are  not  buckled 
With  gold,  nor  my  hair 

Oiled  and  scented,  my  jacket's 
Not  satin,  I  wear 

Corded  breeches,  wide  hats, 
And  I  make  people  stare  ! 

So  I  do,  but  my  heart 
Is  the  heart  of  a  man, 


SWORD    BLADES  83 

And  my  thoughts  cannot  twirl 

In  the  limited  span 
'Twixt  my  head  and  my  heels, 

As  some  other  men's  can. 

I  have  business  more  strange 

Than  the  shape  of  my  boots, 
And  my  interests  range 

From  the  sky,  to  the  roots 
Of  this  dung-hill  you  live  in, 

You  half -rotted  shoots 

Of  a  mouldering  tree  ! 

Here's  at  you,  once  more. 
You  Apes  !  You  Jack-fools  ! 

You  can  show  me  the  door, 
And  jeer  at  my  ways, 

But  you're  pinked  to  the  core. 


84  SWORD   BLADES 

And  before  I  have  done, 
I  will  prick  my  name  in 

With  the  front  of  my  steel, 
And  your  lily-white  skin 

Shall  be  printed  with  me. 
For  I've  come  here  to  win  ! 


SWORD   BLADES  85 

ABSENCE 

MY  cup  is  empty  to-night, 

Cold  and  dry  are  its  sides, 

Chilled  by  the  wind  from  the  open  window. 

Empty  and  void,  it  sparkles  white  in  the  moonlight. 

The  room  is  filled  with  the  strange  scent 

Of  wistaria  blossoms. 

They  sway  in  the  moon's  radiance 

And  tap  against  the  wall. 

But  the  cup  of  my  heart  is  still, 

And  cold,  and  empty. 

When  you  come,  it  brims 
Red  and  trembling  with  blood, 
^cart's  blood  for  your  drinking ; 
lib  fill  your  mouth  with  love 
And  the  bitter-sweet  taste  of  a  soul. ' 


86  SWORD   BLADES 

A  GIFT 

SEE  !  I  give  myself  to  you,  Beloved  ! 

My  words  are  little  jars 

For  you  to  take  and  put  upon  a  shelf. 

Their  shapes  are  quaint  and  beautiful, 

And  they  have  many  pleasant  colours  and  lustres 

To  recommend  them. 

Also  the  scent  from  them  fills  the  room 

With  sweetness  of  flowers  and  crushed  grasses^ 

When  I  shall  have  given  you  the  last  one, 
You  will  have  the  whole  of  me, 
But  I  shall  be  dead. 


SWORD   BLADES  87 


THE  BUNGLER 

You  glow  in  my  heart 

Like  the  flames  of  uncounted  candles. 

But  when  I  go  to  warm  my  hands, 

My  clumsiness  overturns  the  light, 

And  then  I  stumble 

Against  the  tables  and  chairs. 


88  SWORD   BLADES 

FOOL'S  MONEY  BAGS 

OUTSIDE  the  long  window, 

With  his  head  on  the  stone  sill, 

The  dog  is  lying, 

Gazing  at  his  Beloved. 

His  eyes  are  wet  and  urgent, 

And  his  body  is  taut  and  shaking. 

It  is  cold  on  the  terrace ; 

A  pale  wind  licks  along  the  stone  slabs, 

But  the  dog  gazes  through  the  glass 

And  is  content. 

The  Beloved  is  writing  a  letter. 
Occasionally  she  speaks  to  the  dog, 
But  she  is  thinking  of  her  writing. 
Does  she,  too,  give  her  devotion  to  one 
Not  worthy  ? 


SWORD   BLADES  89 


MISCAST 
I 

I  HAVE  whetted  my  brain  until  it  is  like  a  Damascus 

blade, 
So  keen  that  it  nicks  off  the  floating  fringes  of  passers- 

by, 

So  sharp  that  the  air  would  turn  its  edge 

Were  it  to  be  twisted  in  flight. 

Licking  passions  have  bitten  then*  arabesques  into  it, 

And  the  mark  of  them  lies,  in  and  out, 

Worm-like, 

With  the  beauty  of  corroded  copper  patterning  white 

steel. 

My  brain  is  curved  like  a  scimitar, 
And  sighs  at  its  cutting 
Like  a  sickle  mowing  grass. 


90  SWORD   BLADES 

But  of  what  use  is  all  this  to  me ! 
I,  who  am  set  to  crack  stones 
In  a  country  lane  ! 


SWORD   BLADES  91 


MISCAST 
H 

My  heart  is  like  a  cleft  pomegranate 

Bleeding  crimson  seeds 

And  dripping  them  on  the  ground. 

My  heart  gapes  because  it  is  ripe  and  over-full, 

And  its  seeds  are  bursting  from  it. 

But  how  is  this  other  than  a  torment  to  me ! 
I,  who  am  shut  up,  with  broken  crockery, 
In  a  dark  closet ! 


92  SWORD   BLADES 


ANTICIPATION 

I  HAVE  been  temperate  always, 

But  I  am  like  to  be  very  drunk 

With  your  coming. 

There  have  been  times 

I  feared  to  walk  down  the  street 

Lest  I  should  reel  with  the  wine  of  you, 

And  jerk  against  my  neighbours 

As  they  go  by. 

I  am  parched  now,  and  my  tongue  is  horrible  in  my 

mouth, 

But  my  brain  is.  noisy 
With  the  clash  and  gurgle  of  filling  wine-cups. 


SWORD  BLADES  93 

VINTAGE 

I  WILL  mix  me  a  drink  of  stars,  — 

Large  stars  with  polychrome  needles, 

Small  stars  jetting  maroon  and  crimson, 

Cool,  quiet,  green  stars. 

I  will  tear  them  out  of  the  sky, 

And  squeeze  them  over  an  old  silver  cup, 

And  I  will  pour  the  cold  scorn  of  my  Beloved  into  it, 

So  that  my  drink  shall  be  bubbled  with  ice. 

It  will  lap  and  scratch 

As  I  swallow  it  down ; 

And  I  shall  feel  it  as  a  serpent  of  fire, 

Coiling  and  twisting  in  my  belly. 

His  snortings  will  rise  to  my  head, 

And  I  shall  be  hot,  and  laugh, 

Forgetting  that  I  have  ever  known  a  woman. 


94  SWORD   BLADES 

THE  TREE  OF  SCARLET  BERRIES 

THE  rain  gullies  the  garden  paths 

And  tinkles  on  the  broad  sides  of  grass  blades. 

A  tree,  at  the  end  of  my  arm,  is  hazy  with  mist. 

Even  so,  I  can  see  that  it  has  red  berries, 

A  scarlet  fruit, 

Filmed  over  with  moisture. 

It  seems  as  though  the  rain, 

Dripping  from  it, 

Should  be  tinged  with  colour. 

I  desire  the  berries, 

But,  in  the  mist,  I  only  scratch  my  hand  on  the 

thorns. 
Probably,  too,  they  are  bitter. 


SWORD  BLADES  95 


OBLIGATION 

HOLD  your  apron  wide 

That  I  may  pour  my  gifts  into  it, 

So  that  scarcely  shall  your  two  arms  hinder  them 

From  falling  to  the  ground. 

I  would  pour  them  upon  you 
And  cover  you, 
For  greatly  do  I  feel  this  need 
Of  giving  you  something, 
Even  these  poor  things. 

Dearest  of  my  Heart ! 


96  SWORD   BLADES 


THE  TAXI 

WHEN  I  go  away  from  you 

The  world  beats  dead 

Like  a  slackened  drum. 

I  call  out  for  you  against  the  jutted  stars 

And  shout  into  the  ridges  of  the  wind. 

Streets  coming  fast, 

One  after  the  other, 

Wedge  you  away  from  me, 

And  the  lamps  of  the  city  prick  my  eyes 

So  that  I  can  no  longer  see  your  face. 

Why  should  I  leave  you, 

To  wound  myself  upon  the  sharp  edges  of  the  night  ? 


SWORD   BLADES  97 


THE  GIVER  OF  STARS 

HOLD  your  soul  open  for  my  welcoming. 
Let  the  quiet  of  your  spirit  bathe  me 
With  its  clear  and  rippled  coolness, 
That,  loose-limbed  and  weary,  I  find  rest, 
Outstretched  upon  your  peace,  as  on  a  bed  of  ivory. 

Let  the  flickering  flame  of  your  soul  play  all  about  me, 

That  into  my  limbs  may  come  the  keenness  of  fire, 

The  life  and  joy  of  tongues  of  flame, 

And,  going  out  from  you,  tightly  strung  and  in  tune, 

I  may  rouse  the  blear-eyed  world, 

And  pour  into  it  the  beauty  which  you  have  begotten. 


98  SWORD   BLADES 

THE  TEMPLE 

BETWEEN  us  leapt  a  gold  and  scarlet  flame. 

Into  the  hollow  of  the  cupped,  arched  blue 

Of  Heaven  it  rose.    Its  flickering  tongues  up-drew 
And  vanished  in  the  sunshine.  How  it  came 
We  guessed  not,  nor  what  thing  could  be  its  name. 

From  each  to  each  had  sprung  those  sparks  which 
flew 

Together  into  fire.   But  we  knew 
The  winds  would  slap  and  quench  it  in  their  game. 

And  so  we  graved  and  fashioned  marble  blocks 
To  treasure  it,  and  placed  them  round  about. 
With  pillared  porticos  we  wreathed  the  whole, 

And  roofed  it  with  bright  bronze.   Behind  carved 

locks 

Flowered  the  tall  and  sheltered  flame.   Without, 
The  baffled  winds  thrust  at  a  column's  bole. 


SWORD    BLADES  99 


EPITAPH  OF  A  YOUNG  POET 

WHO  DIED  BEFORE  HAVING 

ACHIEVED  SUCCESS 

BENEATH  this  sod  lie  the  remains 
Of  one  who  died  of  growing  pains. 


100  SWORD   BLADES 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  REQUEST 

You  ask  me  for  a  sonnet.   Ah,  my  Dear, 
Can  clocks  tick  back  to  yesterday  at  noon  ? 
Can  cracked  and  fallen  leaves  recall  last  June 

And  leap  up  on  the  boughs,  now  stiff  and  sere  ? 

For  your  sake,  I  would  go  and  seek  the  year, 
Faded  beyond  the  purple  ranks  of  dune, 
Blown  sands  of  drifted  hours,  which  the  moon 

Streaks  with  a  ghostly  finger,  and  her  sneer 

Pulls  at  my  lengthening  shadow.   Yes,  'tis  that ! 
My  shadow  stretches  forward,  and  the  ground 

Is  dark  in  front  because  the  light's  behind. 
It  is  grotesque,  with  such  a  funny  hat, 
In  watching  it  and  walking  I  have  found 

More  than  enough  to  occupy  my  mind. 

I  cannot  turn,  the  light  would  make  me  blind. 


POPPY  SEED 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE  OF  MAX 
BREUCK 

1 

A  YELLOW  band  of  light  upon  the  street 
Pours  from  an  open  door,  and  makes  a  wide 
Pathway  of  bright  gold  across  a  sheet 
Of  calm  and  liquid  moonshine.   From  inside 
Come  shouts  and  streams  of  laughter,  and  a 

snatch 

Of  song,  soon  drowned  and  lost  again  in  mirth, 
The  clip  of  tankards  on  a  table  top, 
And  stir  of  booted  heels.   Against  the  patch 
Of  candle-light  a  shadow  falls,  its  girth 
Proclaims  the  host  himself,  and  master  of  his 

shop. 


104  POPPY   SEED 

II 

This  is  the  tavern  of  one  Hilverdink, 

Jan  Hilverdink,  whose  wines  are  much  esteemed. 

Within  his  cellar  men  can  have  to  drink 

The  rarest  cordials  old  monks  ever  schemed 

To  coax  from  pulpy  grapes,  and  with  nice  art 

Improve  and  spice  their  virgin  juiciness. 

Here  froths  the  amber  beer  of  many  a  brew, 

Crowning  each  pewter  tankard  with  as  smart 

A  cap  as  ever  in  his  wantonness 

Winter  set  glittering  on  top  of  an  old  yew. 

Ill 

Tall  candles  stand  upon  the  table,  where 
Are  twisted  glasses,  ruby-sparked  with  wine, 
Clarets  and  ports.   Those  topaz  bumpers  were 
Drained  from  slim,  long-necked  bottles  of  the 
Rhine. 


POPPY   SEED  105 

The  centre  of  the  board  is  piled  with  pipes, 
Slender  and  clean,  the  still  unbaptized  clay 
Awaits  its  burning  fate.  Behind,  the  vault 
Stretches  from  dim  to  dark,  a  groping  way 
Bordered  by  casks  and  puncheons,  whose  brass  stripes 
And  bands  gleam  dully  still,  beyond  the  gay  tumult. 

IV 
"For  good  old  Master  Hilverdink,  a  toast !" 

Clamoured  a  youth  with  tassels  on  his  boots. 
"Bring  out  your  oldest  brandy  for  a  boast, 

From  that  small  barrel  in  the  very  roots 

Of  your  deep  cellar,  man.   Why  here  is  Max  ! 

Ho  !  Welcome,  Max,  you're  scarcely  here  in  time. 

We  want  to  drink  to  old  Jan's  luck,  and  smoke 

His  best  tobacco  for  a  grand  climax. 

Here,  Jan,  a  paper,  fragrant  as  crushed  thyme, 

We'll  have  the  best  to  wish  you  luck,  or  may  we 
choke !" 


106  POPPY  SEED 

V 

Max  Breuck  unclasped  his  broadcloth  cloak,  and 

sat. 
"Well  thought  of,  Franz ;  here's  luck  to  Mynheer 

Jan." 

The  host  set  down  a  jar ;  then  to  a  vat 
Lost  in  the  distance  of  his  cellar,  ran. 
Max  took  a  pipe  as  graceful  as  the  stem 
Of  some  long  tulip,  crammed  it  full,  and  drew 
The  pungent  smoke  deep  to  his  grateful  lung. 
It  curled  all  blue  throughout  the  cave  and  flew 
Into  the  silver  night.   At  once  there  flung 
Into  the  crowded  shop  a  boy,  who  cried  to  them : 

VI 

"Oh,  sirs,  is  there  some  learned  lawyer  here, 
Some  advocate,  or  all-wise  counsellor  ? 
My  master  sent  me  to  inquire  where 


POPPY   SEED  107 

Such  men  do  mostly  be,  but  every  door 
Was  shut  and  barred,  for  late  has  grown  the  hour, 
I  pray  you  tell  me  where  I  may  now  find 
One  versed  in  law,  the  matter  will  not  wait." 
"I  am  a  lawyer,  boy,"  said  Max,  "my  mind 
Is  not  locked  to  my  business,  though  'tis  late. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  what  way  is  in  my  power. 

VII 

Then  once  more,  cloaked  and  ready,  he  set  out, 
Tripping  the  footsteps  of  the  eager  boy 
Along  the  dappled  cobbles,  while  the  rout 
Within  the  tavern  jeered  at  his  employ. 
Through  new-burst  elm  leaves  filtered  the  white 

moon, 
Who  peered  and  splashed  between  the  twinkling 

boughs, 

Flooded  the  open  spaces,  and  took  flight 
Before  tall,  serried  houses  in  platoon,  , 


108  POPPY   SEED 

Guarded  by  shadows.   Past  the  Custom  House 
They  took  their  hurried  way  in  the  Spring-scented  nighf 

VIII 

Before  a  door  which  fronted  a  canal 

The  boy  halted.   A  dim  tree-shaded  spot. 

The  water  lapped  the  stones  in  musical 

And  rhythmic  tappings,  and  a  galliot 

Slumbered  at  anchor  with  no  light  aboard. 

The  boy  knocked  twice,  and  steps  approached.   Af 

flame 

Winked  through  the  keyhole,  then  a  key  was  turned, 
And  through  the  open  door  Max  went  toward 
Another  door,  whence  sound  of  voices  came. 
He  entered  a  large  room  where  candelabra  burned. 

IX 

An  aged  man  in  quilted  dressing  gown 

Rose  up  to  greet  him.   "Sir,"  said  Max,  "you  sent] 


POPPY   SEED  109 

Your  messenger  to  seek  throughout  the  town 
A  lawyer.   I  have  small  accomplishment, 
But  I  am  at  your  service,  and  my  name 
Is  Max  Breuck,  Counsellor,  at  your  command." 
"Mynheer,"  replied  the  aged  man,  "obliged 
Am  I,  and  count  myself  much  privileged. 
I  am  Cornelius  Kurler,  and  my  fame 
Is  better  known  on  distant  oceans  than  on  land. 

X 

My  ship  has  tasted  water  in  strange  seas, 
And  bartered  goods  at  still  uncharted  isles. 
She's  oft  coquetted  with  a  tropic  breeze, 

And  sheered  off  hurricanes  with  jaunty  smiles." 

I 
'Tush,  Kurler,"  here  broke  in  the  other  man, 

'Enough  of  poetry,  draw  the  deed  and  sign." 
The  old  man  seemed  to  wizen  at  the  voice, 
'My  good  friend,  Grootver,  — "  he  at  once  began* 
"No  introductions,  let  us  have  some  wine, 


110  POPPY   SEED 

And  business,  now  that  you  at  last  have  made  your 
choice." 

XI 

A  harsh  and  disagreeable  man  he  proved  to  be, 

This  Grootver,  with  no  single  kindly  thought. 

Kurler  explained,  his  old  hands  nervously 

Twisting  his  beard.   His  vessel  he  had  bought 

From  Grootver.   He  had  thought  to  soon  repay 

The  ducats  borrowed,  but  an  adverse  wind 

Had  so  delayed  him  that  his  cargo  brought 

But  half  its  proper  price,  the  very  day 

He  came  to  port  he  stepped  ashore  to  find 

The  market  glutted  and  his  counted  profits  naught 

XII 

Little  by  little  Max  made  out  the  way 

That  Grootver  pressed  that  poor  harassed  old  man. 

His  money  he  must  have,  too  long  delay 


POPPY   SEED  111 

Had  turned  the  usurer  to  a  ruffian. 
"But  let  me  take  my  ship,  with  many  bales 
1    Of  cotton  stuffs  dyed  crimson,  green,  and  blue, 
Cunningly  patterned,  made  to  suit  the  taste 
Of  mandarin's  ladies ;  when  my  battered  sails 
Open  for  home,  such  stores  will  I  bring  you 
That  all  your  former  ventures  will  be  counted  waste. 

XIII 

Such  light  and  foamy  silks,  like  crinkled  cream, 

And  indigo  more  blue  than  sun-whipped  seas, 

Spices  and  fragrant  trees,  a  massive  beam 

Of  sandalwood,  and  pungent  China  teas, 

Tobacco,  coffee  ! "   Grootver  only  laughed. 

Max  heard  it  all,  and  worse  than  all  he  heard 

The  deed  to  which  the  sailor  gave  his  word. 

He  shivered,  'twas  as  if  the  villain  gaffed 

The  old  man  with  a  boat-hook ;  bleeding,  spent, 

He  begged  for  life  nor  knew  at  all  the  road  he  went. 


112  POPPY   SEED 

XIV 

For  Kurler  had  a  daughter,  young  and  gay, 

Carefully  reared  and  shielded,  rarely  seen. 

But  on  one  black  and  most  unfriendly  day 

Grootver  had  caught  her  as  she  passed  between 

The  kitchen  and  the  garden.   She  had  run 

In  fear  of  him,  his  evil  leering  eye, 

And  when  he  came  she,  bolted  in  her  room, 

Refused  to  show,  though  gave  no  reason  why. 

The  spinning  of  her  future  had  begun, 

On  quiet  nights  she  heard  the  whirring  of  her  doom. 

XV 

Max  mended  an  old  goosequill  by  the  fire, 
Loathing  his  work,  but  seeing  no  thing  to  do. 
He  felt  his  hands  were  building  up  the  pyre 
To  burn  two  souls,  and  seized  with  vertigo 
He  staggered  to  his  chair.   Before  him  lay 


POPPY   SEED  113 

White  paper  still  unspotted  by  a  crime. 
"Now,  young  man,  write,"  said  Grootver  in  his 

ear. 

"If  in  two  years  my  vessel  should  yet  stay 
From  Amsterdam,  I  give  Grootver,  sometime 
A  friend,  my  daughter  for  his  lawful  wife.'   Now 
swear." 

XVI 

And  Kurler  swore,  a  palsied,  tottering  sound, 
And  traced  his  name,  a  shaking,  wandering  line. 
Then  dazed  he  sat  there,  speechless  from  his  wound 
Grootver  got  up  :  "Fair  voyage,  the  brigantine  !" 
He  shuffled  from  the  room,  and  left  the  house. 
His  footsteps  wore  to  silence  down  the  street. 
At  last  the  aged  man  began  to  rouse. 
With  help  he  once  more  gained  his  trembling  feet. 
"My  daughter,  Mynheer  Breuck,  is  friendless  now. 
Will  you  watch  over  her  ?   I  ask  a  solemn  vow." 


114  POPPY   SEED 

XVII 

Max  laid  his  hand  upon  the  old  man's  arm, 
"Before  God,  sir,  I  vow,  when  you  are  gone, 
So  to  protect  your  daughter  from  all  harm 
As  one  man  may."   Thus  sorrowful,  forlorn, 
The  situation  to  Max  Breuek  appeared, 
He  gave  his  promise  almost  without  thought, 
Nor  looked  to  see  a  difficulty.    "Bred 
Gently  to  watch  a  mother  left  alone ; 
Bound  by  a  dying  father's  wish,  who  feared 
The  world's  accustomed  harshness  when  he  should 
be  dead ; 

XVIII 

Such  was  my  case  from  youth,  Mynheer  Kurler. 
Last  Winter  she  died  also,  and  my  days 
Are  passed  in  work,  lest  I  should  grieve  for  her, 
And  undo  habits  used  to  earn  her  praise. 


POPPY   SEED  115 

My  leisure  I  will  gladly  give  to  see 

Your  household  and  your  daughter  prosperous." 

The  sailor  said  his  thanks,  but  turned  away. 
| 
He  could  not  brook  that  his  humility, 

So  little  wonted,  and  so  tremulous, 
Should  first  before  a  stranger  make  such  great  dis 
play. 

XIX 

"Come  here  to-morrow  as  the  bells  ring  noon, 
I  sail  at  the  full  sea,  my  daughter  then 
I  will  make  known  to  you.   'Twill  be  a  boon 
If  after  I  have  bid  good-by,  and  when 
Her  eyeballs  scorch  with  watching  me  depart, 
You  bring  her  home  again.   She  lives  with  one 
Old  serving-woman,  who  has  brought  her  up. 
But  that  is  no  friend  for  so  free  a  heart. 
No  head  to  match  her  questions.   It  is  done. 
And  I  must  sail  away  to  come  and  brim  her  cup. 


116  POPPY   SEED 

XX 

My  ship's  the  fastest  that  owns  Amsterdam 

As  home,  so  not  a  letter  can  you  send. 

I  shall  be  back,  before  to  where  I  am 

Another  ship  could  reach.   Now  your  stipend  — " 

Quickly  Breuck  interposed.   "When  you  once  more 

Tread  on  the  stones  which  pave  our  streets.  —  Good 

night ! 

To-morrow  I  will  be,  at  stroke  of  noon, 
At  the  great  wharf/'  Then  hurrying,  in  spite 
Of  cake  and  wine  the  old  man  pressed  upon 
Him  ere  he  went,  he  took  his  leave  and  shut  the  door. 

XXI 

'Twas  noon  in  Amsterdam,  the  day  was  clear, 
And  sunshine  tipped  the  pointed  roofs  with  gold. 
The  brown  canals  ran  liquid  bronze,  for  here 
The  sun  sank  deep  into  the  waters  cold. 


POPPY   SEED  117 

And  every  clock  and  belfry  in  the  town 
Hammered,  and  struck,  and  rang.    Such  peals  of 

bells, 

To  shake  the  sunny  morning  into  life, 
And  to  proclaim  the  middle,  and  the  crown, 
Of  this  most  sparkling  daytime  !   The  crowd  swells, 
Laughing  and  pushing  toward  the  quays  in  friendly 

strife. 

XXII 

The  "  Horn  of  Fortune  "  sails  away  to-day. 
At  highest  tide  she  lets  her  anchor  go, 
And  starts  for  China.   Saucy  popinjay  ! 
Giddy  in  freshest  paint  she  curtseys  low, 
And  beckons  to  her  boats  to  let  her  start. 
Blue  is  the  ocean,  with  a  flashing  breeze. 
The  shining  waves  are  quick  to  take  her  part. 
They  push  and  spatter  her.   Her  sails  are  loose, 
Her  tackles  hanging,  waiting  men  to  seize 


118  POPPY   SEED 

And  haul  them  taut,  with  chanty-singing,  as  they 
choose. 

XXIII 

At  the  great  wharf's  edge  Mynheer  Kurler  stands, 
And  by  his  side,  his  daughter,  young  Christine. 
Max  Breuck  is  there,  his  hat  held  in  his  hands, 
Bowing  before  them  both.   The  brigantine 
Bounces  impatient  at  the  long  delay, 
Curvets  and  jumps,  a  cable's  length  from  shore. 
A  heavy  galliot  unloads  on  the  walls 
Round,  yellow  cheeses,  like  gold  cannon  balls 
Stacked  on  the  stones  in  pyramids.   Once  more 
Kurler  has  kissed  Christine,  and  now  he  is  away. 

XXIV 

Christine  stood  rigid  like  a  frozen  stone, 
Her  hands  wrung  pale  in  effort  at  control. 
Max  moved  aside  and  let  her  be  alone, 


POPPY   SEED  119 

For  grief  exacts  each  penny  of  its  toll. 

The  dancing  boat  tossed  on  the  glinting  sea. 

A  sun-path  swallowed  it  in  flaming  light, 

Then,  shrunk  a  cockleshell,  it  came  again 

Upon  the  other  side.   Now  on  the  lee 

It  took  the  "Horn  of  Fortune."   Straining  sight 

Could  see  it  hauled  aboard,  men  pulling  on  the  crane. 

XXV 

Then  up  above  the  eager  brigantine, 

Along  her  slender  masts,  the  sails  took  flight, 

Were  sheeted  home,  and  ropes  were  coiled.   The  shine 

Of  the  wet  anchor,  when  its  heavy  weight 

Rose  splashing  to  the  deck.   These  things  they  saw, 

Christine  and  Max,  upon  the  crowded  quay. 

They  saw  the  sails  grow  white,  then  blue  in  shade, 

The  ship  had  turned,  caught  in  a  windy  flaw 

She  glided  imperceptibly  away, 

Drew  farther  off  and  in  the  bright  sky  seemed  to  fade. 


120  POPPY  SEED 

XXVI 

Home,  through  the  emptying  streets,  Max  took 

Christine, 

Who  would  have  hid  her  sorrow  from  his  gaze. 
Before  the  iron  gateway,  clasped  between 
Each  garden  wall,  he  stopped.   She,  in  amaze, 
Asked,  "Do  you  enter  not  then,  Mynheer  Breuck  ? 
My  father  told  me  of  your  courtesy. 
Since  I  am  now  your  charge,  'tis  meet  for  me 
To  show  such  hospitality  as  maiden  may, 
Without  disdaining  rules  must  not  be  broke. 
Katrina  will  have  coffee,  and  she  bakes  today." 

XXVII 

She  straight  unhasped  the  tall,  beflowered  gate,  i 

Curled  into  tendrils,  twisted  into  cones 

Of  leaves  and  roses,  iron  infoliate, 

It  guards  the  pleasance,  and  its  stiffened  bones 


POPPY   SEED  121 

Are  budded  with  much  peering  at  the  rows, 

And  beds,  and  arbours,  which  it  keeps  inside. 

Max  started  at  the  beauty,  at  the  glare 

Of  tints.   At  either  end  was  set  a  wide 

Path  strewn  with  fine,  red  gravel,  and  such  shows 

Of  tulips  in  their  splendour  flaunted  everywhere  ! 

XXVIII 

From  side  to  side,  midway  each  path,  there 

ran 

A  longer  one  which  cut  the  space  in  two. 
And,  like  a  tunnel  some  magician 
Has  wrought  in  twinkling  green,  an  alley  grew, 
Pleached  thick  and  walled  with  apple  trees ;  their 

flowers 

Incensed  the  garden,  and  when  Autumn  came 
The  plump  and  heavy  apples  crowding  stood 
And  tapped  against  the  arbour.   Then  the  dame 
Katrina  shook  them  down,  in  pelting  showers 


122  POPPY   SEED 

They  plunged  to  earth,  and  died  transformed  to 
sugared  food. 

XXIX 

Against  the  high,  encircling  walls  were  grapes, 
Nailed  close  to  feel  the  baking  of  the  sun 
From  glowing  bricks.   Their  microscopic  shapes 
Half  hidden  by  serrated  leaves.   And  one 
Old  cherry  tossed  its  branches  near  the  door. 
Bordered  along  the  wall,  in  beds  between, 
Flickering,  streaming,  nodding  in  the  air, 
The  pride  of  all  the  garden,  there  were  more 
Tulips  than  Max  had  ever  dreamed  or  seen. 
They  jostled,  mobbed,  and  danced.   Max  stood  at 
helpless  stare. 

XXX 

"Within  the  arbour,  Mynheer  Breuck,  I'll  bring 
Coffee  and  cakes,  a  pipe,  and  Father's  best 


POPPY   SEED  12 J 

Tobacco,  brought  from  countries  harbouring 
"Dawn's  earliest  footstep.   Wait."   With  girlish 

zest 

To  please  her  guest  she  flew.   A  moment  more 
She  came  again,  with  her  old  nurse  behind. 
Then,  sitting  on  the  bench  and  knitting  fast, 
She  talked  as  someone  with  a  noble  store 
Of  hidden  fancies,  blown  upon  the  wind, 
Eager  to  flutter  forth  and  leave  their  silent  past. 

XXXI 

The  little  apple  leaves  above  their  heads 

Let  fall  a  quivering  sunshine.   Quiet,  cool, 

In  blossomed  boughs  they  sat.   Beyond,  the  beds 

Of  tulips  blazed,  a  proper  vestibule 

And  antechamber  to  the  rainbow.   Dyes 

T)f  prismed  richness  :  Carmine.   Madder.   Blues 

Tinging  dark  browns  to  purple.   Silvers  flushed 

To  amethyst  and  tinct  with  gold.   Round  eyes 


124  POPPY  SEED 

Of  scarlet,  spotting  tender  saffron  hues. 

Violets  sunk  to  blacks,  and  reds  in  orange  crushed. 

XXXII 

Of  every  pattern  and  in  every  shade. 
Nacreous,  iridescent,  mottled,  checked. 
Some  purest  sulphur-yellow,  others  made 
An  ivory-white  with  disks  of  copper  flecked. 
Sprinkled  and  striped,  tasselled,  or  keenest  edged. 
Striated,  powdered,  freckled,  long  or  short. 
They  bloomed,  and  seemed  strange  wonder-moths 

new-fledged, 

Born  of  the  spectrum  wedded  to  a  flame. 
The  shade  within  the  arbour  made  a  port 
To  o'ertaxed  eyes,  its  still,  green  twilight  rest  became. 

XXXIII 

Her  knitting-needles  clicked  and  Christine  talked, 
This  child  matured  to  woman  unaware, 


POPPY   SEED  125 

The  first  time  left  alone.   Now  dreams  once  balked 
Found  utterance.    Max  thought  her  very  fair. 
Beneath  her  cap  her  ornaments  shone  gold, 
And  purest  gold  they  were.   Kurler  was  rich 
And  heedful.   Her  old  maiden  aunt  had  died 
Whose  darling  care  she  was.   Now,  growing  bold, 
She  asked,  had  Max  a  sister  ?   Dropped  a  stitch 
At  her  own  candour.   Then  she  paused  and  softly 
sighed. 

XXXIV 

Two  years  was  long  !   She  loved  her  father  well, ' 
But  fears  she  had  not.   He  had  always  been 
Just  sailed  or  sailing.   And  she  must  not  dwell 
On  sad  thoughts,  he  had  told  her  so,  and  seen 
Her  smile  at  parting.   But  she  sighed  once  more. 
Two  years  was  long ;  'twas  not  one  hour  yet ! 
Mynheer  Grootver  she  would  not  see  at  all. 
Yes,  yes,  she  knew,  but  ere  the  date  so  set, 


126  POPPY   SEED 

The  "Horn  of  Fortune"  would  be  at  the  wall. 
When  Max  had  bid  farewell,  she  watched  him  from 
the  door. 

XXXV 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  Max  went  to  ask 

The  health  of  Juf vrouw  Kurler,  and  the  news : 

Another  tulip  blown,  or  the  great  task 

Of  gathering  petals  which  the  high  wind  strews ; 

The  polishing  of  floors,  the  pictured  tiles 

Well  scrubbed,  and  oaken  chairs  most  deftly  oiled. 

Such  things  were  Christine's  world,  and  his  was  she 

Winter  drew  near,  his  sun  was  in  her  smiles. 

Another  Spring,  and  at  his  law  he  toiled, 

Unspoken  hope  counselled  a  wise  efficiency. 

XXXVI 

Max  Breuck  was  honour's  soul,  he  knew  himself 
The  guardian  of  this  girl ;  no  more,  no  less. 


POPPY  SEED  127 

As  one  in  charge  of  guineas  on  a  shelf 
Loose  in  a  china  teapot,  may  confess 
His  need,  but  may  not  borrow  till  his  friend 
Comes  back  to  give.   So  Max,  in  honour,  said 
No  word  of  love  or  marriage ;  but  the  days 
He  clipped  off  on  his  almanac.   The  end 
Must  come  !   The  second  year,  with  feet  of  lead, 
Lagged  slowly  by  till  Spring  had  plumped  the  willow 
sprays. 

XXXVII 

Two  years  had  made  Christine  a  woman  grown, 
With  dignity  and  gently  certain  pride. 
But  all  her  childhood  fancies  had  not  flown, 
Her  thoughts  in  lovely  dreamings  seemed  to  glide. 
Max  was  her  trusted  friend,  did  she  confess 
A.  closer  happiness  ?   Max  could  not  tell. 
Two  years  were  over  and  his  life  he  found 
Sphered  and  complete.   In  restless  eagerness 


128  POPPY   SEED 

He  waited  for  the  "Horn  of  Fortune."    Well 
Had  he  his  promise  kept,  abating  not  one  pound. 

XXXVIII 

Spring  slipped  away  to  Summer.    Still  no  glass 
Sighted  the  brigantine.   Then  Grootver  came 
Demanding  Jufvrouw  Kurler.    His  trespass 
Was  justified,  for  he  had  won  the  game. 
Christine  begged  time,  more  time  !   Midsummer 

went, 

And  Grootver  waxed  impatient.   Still  the  ship 
Tarried.    Christine,  betrayed  and  weary,  sank 
To  dreadful  terrors.    One  day,  crazed,  she  sent 
For  Max.    "Come  quickly,"  said  her  note,  "I  skip 
The  worst  distress  until  we  meet.   The  world  is  blank.*1 

XXXIX 

Through  the  long  sunshine  of  late  afternoon 
Max  went  to  her.   In  the  pleached  alley,  lost 


POPPY   SEED  129 

In  bitter  reverie,  he  found  her  soon. 
And  sitting  down  beside  her,  at  the  cost 
Of  all  his  secret,  "Dear,"  said  he,  "what  thing 
So  suddenly  has  happened  ?"   Then,  in  tears, 
She  told  that  Grootver,  on  the  following  morn. 
Would  come  to  marry  her,  and  shuddering : 
"I  will  die  rather,  death  has  lesser  fears." 
Max  felt  the  shackles  drop  from  the  oath  which  he 
had  sworn. 

XL 

"My  Dearest  One,  the  hid  joy  of  my  heart ! 
I  love  you,  oh  !  you  must  indeed  have  known. 
In  strictest  honour  I  have  played  my  part ; 
But  all  this  misery  has  overthrown 
My  scruples.    If  you  love  me,  marry  me 
Before  the  sun  has  dipped  behind  those  trees. 
You  cannot  be  wed  twice,  and  Grootver,  foiled,^ 

;  Can  eat  his  anger.   My  care  it  shall  be 


130  POPPY  SEED 

To  pay  your  father's  debt,  by  such  degrees 

As  I  can  compass,  and  for  years  I've  greatly  toiled. 

XLI 

This  is  not  haste,  Christine,  for  long  I've  known 
My  love,  and  silence  forced  upon  my  lips. 
I  worship  you  with  all  the  strength  I've  shown 
In  keeping  faith."   With  pleading  finger  tips 
He  touched  her  arm.    "Christine  !   Beloved  ! 

Think. 

Let  us  not  tempt  the  future.   Dearest,  speak, ' 
I  love  you.   Do  my  words  fall  too  swift  now  ? 
They've  been  in  leash  so  long  upon  the  brink." 
She  sat  quite  still,  her  body  loose  and  weak. 
Then  into  him  she  melted,  all  her  soul  at  flow. 

XLII 

And  they  were  married  ere  the  westering  sun 
Had  disappeared  behind  the  garden  trees. 


POPPY    SEED  131 

The  evening  poured  on  them  its  benison, 
And  flower-scents,  that  only  night-time  frees, 
Rose  up  around  them  from  the  beamy  ground, 
Silvered  and  shadowed  by  a  tranquil  moon. 
Within  the  arbour,  long  they  lay  embraced, 
In  such  enraptured  sweetness  as  they  found 
Close-partnered  each  to  each,  and  thinking  soon 
To  be  enwoven,  long  ere  night  to  morning  faced. 

XLIII 
At  last  Max  spoke,  "Dear  Heart,  this  night  is 

ours, 

To  watch  it  pale,  together,  into  dawn, 
Pressing  our  souls  apart  like  opening  flowers 
Until  our  lives,  through  quivering  bodies  drawn, 
Are  mingled  and  confounded.   Then,  far  spent, 
Our  eyes  will  close  to  undisturbed  rest. 
For  that  desired  thing  I  leave  you  now. 
To  pinnacle  this  day's  accomplishment, 


132  POPPY   SEED 

By  telling  Grootver  that  a  bootless  quest 
Is  his,  and  that  his  schemes  have  met  a  knock-down 
blow." 

XLIV 

But  Christine  clung  to  him  with  sobbing  cries, 
Pleading  for  love's  sake  that  he  leave  her  not. 
And  wound  her  arms  about  his  knees  and  thighs 
As  he  stood  over  her.   With  dread,  begot 
Of  Grootver's  name,  and  silence,  and  the  night, 
She  shook  and  trembled.  Words  in  moaning  plaint 
Wooed  him  to  stay.   She  feared,  she  knew  not  why, 
Yet  greatly  feared.   She  seemed  some  anguished 

saint 
Martyred  by  visions.   Max  Breuck  soothed  her 

fright 
With  wisdom,  then  stepped  out  under  the  cooling  sky. 


POPPY   SEED  133 

XLV 

But  at  the  gate  once  more  she  held  him  close 
And  quenched  her  heart  again  upon  his  lips. 
"My  Sweetheart,  why  this  terror  ?     I  propose 
But  to  be  gone  one  hour  !   Evening  slips 
Away,  this  errand  must  be  done."    "Max  !   Max  ! 
First  goes  my  father,  if  I  lose  you  now  !" 
She  grasped  him  as  in  panic  lest  she  drown. 
Softly  he  laughed,  "One  hour  through  the  town 
By  moonlight !  That's  no  place  for  foul  attacks. 
Dearest,  be  comforted,  and  clear  that  troubled  brow. 

XLVI 

One  hour,  Dear,  and  then,  no  more  alone. 
We  front  another  day  as  man  and  wife. 
I  shall  be  back  almost  before  I'm  gone, 
And  midnight  shall  anoint  and  crown  our  life." 
Then  through  the  gate  he  passed.    Along  the  street 


134  POPPY  SEED 

She  watched  his  buttons  gleaming  in  the  moon. 
He  stopped  to  wave  and  turned  the  garden  walL 
Straight  she  sank  down  upon  a  mossy  seat. 
Her  senses,  mist-encircled  by  a  swoon, 
Swayed  to  unconsciousness  beneath  its  wreathing 
pall. 

XLVII 

Briskly  Max  walked  beside  the  still  canal. 
His  step  was  firm  with  purpose.   Not  a  jot 
He  feared  this  meeting,  nor  the  rancorous  gall 
Grootver  would  spit  on  him  who  marred  his  plot. 
He  dreaded  no  man,  since  he  could  protect 
Christine.  His  wife  !  He  stopped  and  laughed  aloud. 
His  starved  life  had  not  fitted  him  for  joy. 

-*  It  strained  him  to  the  utmost  to  reject 
Even  this  hour  with  her.   His  heart  beat  loud. 

;<Damn  Grootver,  who  can  force  my  time  to  this 
employ  !" 


POPPY  SEED  135 

XLVIII 

He  laughed  again.   What  boyish  uncontrol 

To  be  so  racked.   Then  felt  his  ticking  watch. 

In  half  an  hour  Grootver  would  know  the  whole. 

And  he  would  be  returned,  lifting  the  latch 

Of  his  own  gate,  eager  to  take  Christine 

And  crush  her  to  his  lips.   How  bear  delay  ? 

He  broke  into  a  run.   In  front,  a  line 

Of  candle-light  banded  the  cobbled  street. 

Hilverdink's  tavern  !   Not  for  many  a  day 

Had  he  been  there  to  take  his  old,  accustomed  seat. 

XLIX 
"Why,  Max  !  Stop,  Max  !"  And  out  they  came 

pell-mell, 

His  old  companions.   "Max,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Not  drink  with  us  ?  Indeed  you  serve  us  well ! 
How  many  months  is  it  since  we  have  seen 


136  POPPY   SEED 

You  here  ?   Jan,  Jan,  you  slow,  old  doddering  goat ! 
Here's  Mynheer  Breuck  come  back  again  at  last, 
Stir  your  old  bones  to  welcome  him.   Fie,  Max. 
Business  !   And  after  hours  !   Fill  your  throat ; 
Here's  beer  or  brandy.   Now,  boys,  hold  him  fast. 
Put  down  your  cane,  dear  man.   What  really  vicious 
whacks !" 

L 

They  forced  him  to  a  seat,  and  held  him  there, 

Despite  his  anger,  while  the  hideous  joke 

Was  tossed  from  hand  to  hand.   Franz  poured  with 

care 

A  brimming  glass  of  whiskey.   "Here,  we've  broke 
Into  a  virgin  barrel  for  you,  drink  ! 
Tut !   Tut !   Just  hear  him  !   Married  !   Who,  and 

when  ? 

Married,  and  out  on  business.   Clever  Spark  ! 
Which  lie's  the  likeliest  ?   Come,  Max,  do  think." 


POPPY   SEED  137 

Swollen  with  fury,  struggling  with  these  men, 
Max  cursed  hilarity  which  must  needs  have  a  mark. 

LI 

Forcing  himself  to  steadiness,  he  tried 

To  quell  the  uproar,  told  them  what  he  dared 

Of  his  own  life  and  circumstance.   Implied 

Most  urgent  matters,  time  could  ill  be  spared. 

In  jesting  mood  his  comrades  heard  his  tale, 

And  scoffed  at  it.   He  felt  his  anger  more 

Goaded  and  bursting ;  —  "Cowards  !  Is  no  one  loth 

To  mock  at  duty  — "   Here  they  called  for  ale, 

And  forced  a  pipe  upon  him.   With  an  oath 

He  shivered  it  to  fragments  on  the  earthen  floor. 

LII 

Sobered  a  little  by  his  violence, 

And  by  the  host  who  begged  them  to  be  still, 

Nor  injure  his  good  name,  "Max,  no  offence," 


138  POPPY   SEED 

They  blurted,  "y°u  may  leave  now  if  you  will." 
"One  moment,  Max,"  said  Franz.    "We've  gone  too 

far. 

I  ask  your  pardon  for  our  foolish  joke. 
It  started  in  a  wager  ere  you  came. 
The  talk  somehow  had  fall'n  on  drugs,  a  jar 
I  brought  from  China,  herbs  the  natives  smoke, 
Was  with  me,  and  I  thought  merely  to  play  a 


LIII 

Its  properties  are  to  induce  a  sleep 
Fraught  with  adventure,  and  the  flight  of  time 
Is  inconceivable  in  swiftness.   Deep 
Sunken  in  slumber,  imageries  sublime 
Flatter  the  senses,  or  some  fearful  dream 
Holds  them  enmeshed.  Years  pass  which  on  the  clock 
Are  but  so  many  seconds.   We  agreed 
That  the  next  man  who  came  should  prove  the 
scheme  ; 


POPPY   SEED  139 

And  you  were  he.   Jan  handed  you  the  crock. 
Two  whiffs  !   And  then  the  pipe  was  broke,  and  you 
were  freed." 

LIV 

"It  is  a  lie,  a  damned,  infernal  lie  !" 
Max  Breuck  was  maddened  now.   "Another  jest 
Of  your  befuddled  wits.   I  know  not  why 
I  am  to  be  your  butt.   At  my  request 
You'll  choose  among  you  one  who'll  answer  for 
Your  most  unseasonable  mirth.   Good-night 
And  good-by,  —  gentlemen.    You'll  hear  from  me.'3 
But  Franz  had  caught  him  at  the  very  door, 

"It  is  no  lie,  Max  Breuck,  and  for  your  plight 
I  am  to  blame.   Come  back,  and  we'll  talk  quietly,, 

LV 

You  have  no  business,  that  is  why  we  laughed, 
Since  you  had  none  a  few  minutes  ago. 


140  POPPY  SEED 

As  to  your  wedding,  naturally  we  chaffed, 
Knowing  the  length  of  time  it  takes  to  do 
A  simple  thing  like  that  in  this  slow  world. 
Indeed,  Max,  'twas  a  dream.   Forgive  me  then. 
I'll  burn  the  drug  if  you  prefer."   But  Breuck 
Muttered  and  stared,  —  "A  lie."   And  then  he  hurled, 
Distraught,  this  word  at  Franz  :  "Prove  it.   And  when 
It's  proven,  I'll  believe.   That  thing  shall  be  your 
work. 

LVI 

I'll  give  you  just  one  week  to  make  your  case. 

On  August  thirty-first,  eighteen-fourteen, 

I  shall  require  your  proof."   With  wondering  face 

Franz  cried,  "A  week  to  August,  and  fourteen 

The  year  !   You're  mad,  'tis  April  now. 

April,  and  eighteen-twelve."   Max  staggered,  caught 

A  chair,  —  "April  two  years  ago  !   Indeed, 

Or  you,  or  I,  are  mad.   I  know  not  how 


POPPY   SEED  141 

Either  could  blunder  so."  Hilverdink  brought 
"The  Amsterdam  Gazette,"  and  Max  was  forced  to 
read. 

LVII 

"Eighteen  hundred  and  twelve,"  in  largest  print; 
And  next  to  it,  "April  the  twenty-first." 
The  letters  smeared  and  jumbled,  but  by  dint 
Of  straining  every  nerve  to  meet  the  worst, 
He  read  it,  and  into  his  pounding  brain 
Tumbled  a  horror.   Like  a  roaring  sea 
Foreboding  shipwreck,  came  the  message  plain : 

"This  is  two  years  ago  !   What  of  Christine  ?" 
He  fled  the  cellar,  in  his  agony 
Running  to  outstrip  Fate,  and  save  his  holy  shrine. 

LVIII 

The  darkened  buildings  echoed  to  his  feet 
Clap-clapping  on  the  pavement  as  he  ran. 


142  POPPY   SEED 

Across  moon-misted  squares  clamoured  his  fleet 
And  terror- winged  steps.   His  heart  began 
To  labour  at  the  speed.   And  still  no  sign, 
No  flutter  of  a  leaf  against  the  sky. 
And  this  should  be  the  garden  wall,  and  round 
The  corner,  the  old  gate.   No  even  line 
Was  this  !   No  wall !  And  then  a  fearful  cry 
Shattered  the  stillness.   Two  stiff  houses  filled  the 
ground. 

LIX 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  like  dragoons  in  line, 
They  stood,  and  Max  knew  them  to  be  the  ones 
To  right  and  left  of  Kurler's  garden.   Spine 
Rigid  next  frozen  spine.   No  mellow  tones 
Of  ancient  gilded  iron,  undulate, 
Expanding  in  wide  circles  and  broad  curves, 
The  twisted  iron  of  the  garden  gate, 
Was  there.  The  houses  touched  and  left  no  space 


POPPY   SEED  143 

Between.   With  glassy  eyes  and  shaking  nerves 
Max  gazed.   Then  mad  with  fear,  fled  still,  and  left 
that  place. 

LX 

Stumbling  and  panting,  on  he  ran,  and  on. 

His  slobbering  lips  could  only  cry,  "Christine  ! 

My  Dearest  Love  !   My  Wife  !   Where  are  you  gone  ? 

What  future  is  our  past  ?   What  saturnine, 

Sardonic  devil's  jest  has  bid  us  live 

Two  years  together  in  a  puff  of  smoke  ? 

It  was  no  dream,  I  swear  it !   In  some  star, 

Or  still  imprisoned  in  Time's  egg,  you  give 

Me  love.   I  feel  it.   Dearest  Dear,  this  stroke 

Shall  never  part  us,  I  will  reach  to  where  you  are." 

LXI 

His  burning  eyeballs  stared  into  the  dark. 

The  moon  had  long  been  set.   And  still  he  cried : 


144  POPPY   SEED 

"Christine  !   My  Love  !   Christine  ?"   A  sudden 

spark 
Pricked  through  the  gloom,  and  shortly  Max 

espied 

With  his  uncertain  vision,  so  within 
Distracted  he  could  scarcely  trust  its  truth, 
A  latticed  window  where  a  crimson  gleam 
Spangled  the  blackness,  and  hung  from  a  pin, 
An  iron  crane,  were  three  gilt  balls.   His  youth 
Had  taught  then*  meaning,  now  they  closed  upon 

his  dream. 

LXII 

Softly  he  knocked  against  the  casement,  wide 
It  flew,  and  a  cracked  voice  his  business  there 
Demanded.   The  door  opened,  and  inside 
Max  stepped.   He  saw  a  candle  held  in  air 
Above  the  head  of  a  gray-bearded  Jew. 
"Simeon  Isaacs,  Mynheer,  can  I  serve 


POPPY   SEED  145 

You  ?"  "Yes,  I  think  you  can.   Do  you  keep  arms  ? 
I  want  a  pistol."   Quick  the  old  man  grew 
Livid.    "Mynheer,  a  pistol !   Let  me  swerve 
You  from  your  purpose.   Life  brings  often  false 
alarms  — " 

LXIII 

"Peace,  good  old  Isaacs,  why  should  you  suppose 
My  purpose  deadly.   In  good  truth  I've  been 
Blest  above  others.   You  have  many  rows 
Of  pistols  it  would  seem.    Here,  this  shagreen 
Case  holds  one  that  I  fancy.   Silvered  mounts 
Are  to  my  taste.   These  letters  *C.  D.  L.' 
Its  former  owner  ?  Dead,  you  say.   Poor  Ghost ! 
'Twill  serve  my  turn  though  —  "   Hastily  he 

counts 

The  florins  down  upon  the  table.    "Well, 
Good-night,  and  wish  me  luck  for  your  to-morrow's 

toast." 


I 

146  POPPY   SEED 

LXIV 

Into  the  night  again  he  hurried,  now 
Pale  and  in  haste ;  and  far  beyond  the  town 
He  set  his  goal.   And  then  he  wondered  how 
Poor  C.  D.  L.  had  come  to  die.    "It's  grown 
Handy  in  killing,  maybe,  this  I've  bought, 
And  will  work  punctually."   His  sorrow  fell 
Upon  his  senses,  shutting  out  all  else. 
Again  he  wept,  and  called,  and  blindly  fought 
The  heavy  miles  away.    "Christine.   I'm  well. 
I'm  coming.   My  Own  Wife!"   He  lurched  with 
failing  pulse. 

LXV 

Along  the  dyke  the  keen  air  blew  in  gusts, 
\nd  grasses  bent  and  wailed  before  the  wind. 
The  Zuider  Zee,  which  croons  all  night  and  thrusts 
Long  stealthy  fingers  up  some  way  to  find 


POPPY   SEED  147 

And  crumble  down  the  stones,  moaned  baffled.    Here 
The  wide-armed  windmills  looked  like  gallows-trees. 
No  lights  were  burning  in  the  distant  thorps. 
Max  laid  aside  his  coat.   His  mind,  half-clear, 
Babbled  "Christine  !"   A  shot  split  through  the 

breeze. 
The  cold  stars  winked  and  glittered  at  his  chilling 

corpse. 


148  POPPY  SEED 

SANCTA    MARIA,    SUCCURRE    MISERIS 

DEAR  Virgin  Mary,  far  away, 

Look  down  from  Heaven  while  I  pray. 

Open  your  golden  casement  high, 

And  lean  way  out  beyond  the  sky. 

I  am  so  little,  it  may  be 

A  task  for  you  to  harken  me. 

0  Lady  Mary,  I  have  bought 

A  candle,  as  the  good  priest  taught. 

1  only  had  one  penny,  so 
Old  Goody  Jenkins  let  it  go. 
It  is  a  little  bent,  you  see. 
But  Oh,  be  merciful  to  me  ! 

I  have  not  anything  to  give, 
Yet  I  so  long  for  him  to  live. 


POPPY   SEED  149 

A  year  ago  he  sailed  away 

And  not  a  word  unto  today. 

I've  strained  my  eyes  from  the  sea-wall 

But  never  does  he  come  at  all. 

Other  ships  have  entered  port 

Their  voyages  finished,  long  or  short, 

And  other  sailors  have  received 

Their  welcomes,  while  I  sat  and  grieved. 

My  heart  is  bursting  for  his  hail, 

O  Virgin,  let  me  spy  his  sail. 

Hull  down  on  the  edge  of  a  sun-soaked  sea 
Sparkle  the  bellying  sails  for  me. 
Taut  to  the  push  of  a  rousing  wind 
Shaking  the  sea  till  it  foams  behind, 
The  tightened  rigging  is  shrill  with  the  song: 
*'  We  are  back  again  who  were  gone  so  long." 


150  POPPY   SEED 

One  afternoon  I  bumped  my  head. 

I  sat  on  a  post  and  wished  I  were  dead 

Like  father  and  mother,  for  no  one  cared 

Whither  I  went  or  how  I  fared. 

A  man's  voice  said,  "My  little  lad, 

Here's  a  bit  of  a  toy  to  make  you  glad." 

Then  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  him  plain, 
With  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  the  dark  blue 

stain 

Of  tattooed  skin,  where  a  flock  of  quail 
Flew  up  to  his  shoulder  and  met  the  tail 
Of  a  dragon  curled,  all  pink  and  green, 
Which  sprawled  on  his  back,  when  it  was  seen, 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  gave  to  me 
The  most  marvellous  top  which  could  ever  be. 
It  had  ivory  eyes,  and  jet-black  rings, 
And  a  red  stone  carved  into  little  wings, 


POPPY   SEED  151 

All  joined  by  a  twisted  golden  line, 

And  set  in  the  brown  wood,  even  and  fine. 

Forgive  me,  Lady,  I  have  not  brought 

My  treasure  to  you  as  I  ought, 

But  he  said  to  keep  it  for  his  sake 

And  comfort  myself  with  it,  and  take 

Joy  in  its  spinning,  and  so  I  do. 

It  couldn't  mean  quite  the  same  to  you. 

Every  day  I  met  him  there, 

Where  the  fisher-nets  dry  in  the  sunny  air. 

He  told  me  stories  of  courts  and  kings, 

Of  storms  at  sea,  of  lots  of  things. 

The  top  he  said  was  a  sort  of  sign 

That  something  in  the  big  world  was  mine. 

Blue  and  white  on  a  sun-shot  ocean. 
Against  the  horizon  a  glint  in  motion. 


152  POPPY  SEED 

Full  in  the  grasp  of  a  shoving  wind, 
Trailing  her  bubbles  of  foam  behind, 
Singing  and  shouting  to  port  she  races, 
A  flying  harp,  with  her  sheets  and  braces* 

0  Queen  of  Heaven,  give  me  heed, 

1  am  in  very  utmost  need. 

He  loved  me,  he  was  all  I  had, 
And  when  he  came  it  made  the  sad 
Thoughts  disappear.   This  very  day 
Send  his  ship  home  to  me  I  pray. 

I'll  be  a  priest,  if  you  want  it  so, 
I'll  work  till  I  have  enough  to  go 
And  study  Latin  to  say  the  prayers 
On  the  rosary  our  old  priest  wears, 
I  wished  to  be  a  sailor  too, 
But  I  will  give  myself  to  you. 


POPPY   SEED  153 

I'll  never  even  spin  my  top, 

But  put  it  away  in  a  box.    I'll  stop 

Whistling  the  sailor-songs  he  taught. 

I'll  save  my  pennies  till  I  have  bought 

A  silver  heart  in  the  market  square, 

I've  seen  some  beautiful,  white  ones  there. 

I'll  give  up  all  I  want  to  do 
And  do  whatever  you  tell  me  to. 
Heavenly  Lady,  take  away 
All  the  games  I  like  to  play, 
Take  my  life  to  fill  the  score, 
Only  bring  him  back  once  more  ! 

The  poplars  shiver  and  turn  their  leaves, 
And  the  wind  through  the  belfry  moans  and 

grieves. 

The  gray  dust  whirls  in  the  market  square. 
And  the  silver  hearts  are  covered  with  care 


154  POPPY   SEED 

By  thick  tarpaulins.   Once  again 
The  bay  is  black  under  heavy  rain. 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  has  shut  her  door,, 
A  little  boy  weeps  and  prays  no  more. 


POPPY   SEED  155 


AFTER  HEARING  A  WALTZ  BY  BARTOK 

BUT  why  did  I  kill  him  ?   Why?   Why? 

In  the  small,  gilded  room,  near  the  stair  ? 
My  ears  rack  and  throb  with  his  cry, 

And  his  eyes  goggle  under  his  hair, 

As  my  fingers  sink  into  the  fair 
White  skin  of  his  throat.   It  was  I ! 

I  killed  him  !   My  God  !  Don't  you  hear  ? 
I  shook  him  until  his  red  tongue 

Hung  flapping  out  through  the  black,  queer, 
Swollen  lines  of  his  lips.   And  I  clung 
With  my  nails  drawing  blood,  while  I  flung 

The  loose,  heavy  body  in  fear. 


156  POPPY   SEED 

Fear  lest  he  should  still  not  be  dead. 
I  was  drunk  with  the  lust  of  his  life. 

The  blood-drops  oozed  slow  from  his  head 
And  dabbled  a  chair.    And  our  strife 
Lasted  one  reeling  second,  his  knife 

Lay  and  winked  in  the  lights  overhead. 

And  the  waltz  from  the  ballroom  I  heard, 
When  I  called  him  a  low,  sneaking  cur. 

And  the  wail  of  the  violins  stirred 
My  brute  anger  with  visions  of  her. 
As  I  throttled  his  windpipe,  the  purr 

Of  his  breath  with  the  waltz  became  blurred. 

I  have  ridden  ten  miles  through  the  dark, 
With  that  music,  an  infernal  din, 

Pounding  rhythmic  inside  me.   Just  Hark  ! 
One  !  Two  I  Three  !  And  my  fingers  sink  in 


POPPY    SEED  157 

To  his  flesh  when  the  violins,  thin 
And  straining  with  passion,  grow  stark. 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  Oh,  the  horror  of  sound  ! 
While  she  danced  I  was  crushing  his  throat. 

He  had  tasted  the  joy  of  her,  wound 
Round  her  body,  and  I  heard  him  gloat 
On  the  favour.   That  instant  I  smote. 

One  !  Two  !   Three  !   How  the  dancers  swirl 
round  ! 

He  is  here  in  the  room,  in  my  arm, 

His  limp  body  hangs  on  the  spin 
Of  the  waltz  we  are  dancing,  a  swarm 

Of  blood-drops  is  hemming  us  in  ! 

Round  and  round  !   One  !   Two  !   Three  !   And 

his  sin 
Is  red  like  his  tongue  lolling  warm. 


158  POPPY  SEED 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  And  the  drums  are  his  knell. 
He  is  heavy,  his  feet  beat  the  floor 

As  I  drag  him  about  in  the  swell 

Of  the  waltz.   With  a  menacing  roar, 
The  trumpets  crash  in  through  the  door. 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  clangs  his  funeral  bell. 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  In  the  chaos  of  space 

Rolls  the  earth  to  the  hideous  glee 
Of  death  !  And  so  cramped  is  this  place, 

I  stifle  and  pant.   One!   Two!   Three! 

Round  and  round  !   God  !   'Tis  he  throttles  me  ! 
He  has  covered  my  mouth  with  his  face  ! 

And  his  blood  has  dripped  into  my  heart ! 

And  my  heart  beats  and  labours.   One  !   Two  ! 
Three  !   His  dead  limbs  have  coiled  every  part 

Of  my  body  in  tentacles.   Through 


POPPY   SEED  159 

My  ears  the  waltz  jangles.   Like  glue 
His  dead  body  holds  me  athwart. 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  Give  me  air  !  Oh  !  My  God  ! 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  I  am  drowning  in  slime  ! 
One  !  Two  !  Three  !  And  his  corpse,  like  a  clod, 

Beats  me  into  a  jelly  !  The  chime, 

One  !  Two  !  Three  !  And  his  dead  legs  keep  time. 
Air  !  Give  me  air  !  Air  !  My  God  ! 


160  POPPY  SEED 


CLEAR,  WITH  LIGHT  VARIABLE  WINDS 

THE  fountain  bent  and  straightened  itself 

In  the  night  wind, 

Blowing  like  a  flower. 

It  gleamed  and  glittered, 

A  tall  white  lily, 

Under  the  eye  of  the  golden  moon. 

From  a  stone  seat, 

Beneath  a  blossoming  lime, 

The  man  watched  it. 

And  the  spray  pattered 

On  the  dim  grass  at  his  feet. 

The  fountain  tossed  its  water, 
Up  and  up,  like  silver  marbles. 
Is  that  an  arm  he  sees  ? 


POPPY   SEED  16t 

And  for  one  moment 

Does  he  catch  the  moving  curve 

Of  a  thigh  ? 

The  fountain  gurgled  and  splashed, 

And  the  man's  face  was  wet. 

Is  it  singing  that  he  hears  ? 

A  song  of  playing  at  ball  ? 

The  moonlight  shines  on  the  straight  column  of  water, 

And  through  it  he  sees  a  woman, 

Tossing  the  water-balls. 

Her  breasts  point  outwards, 

And  the  nipples  are  like  buds  of  peonies. 

Her  flanks  ripple  as  she  plays, 

And  the  water  is  not  more  undulating 

Than  the  lines  of  her  body. 

"Come,"  she  sings,  "Poet ! 
Am  I  not  more  worth  than  your  day  ladies, 


162  POPPY  SEED 

Covered  with  awkward  stuffs, 

Unreal,  unbeautiful  ? 

What  do  you  fear  in  taking  me  ? 

Is  not  the  night  for  poets  ? 

I  am  your  dream, 

Recurrent  as  water, 

Gemmed  with  the  moon  !" 

She  steps  to  the  edge  of  the  pool 

And  the  water  runs,  rustling,  down  her  sides0 

She  stretches  out  her  arms, 

And  the  fountain  streams  behind  her 

Like  an  opened  veil. 


In  the  morning  the  gardeners  came  to  their  work,, 
*' There  is  something  in  the  fountain,"  said  one. 
They  shuddered  as  they  laid  their  dead  master 


POPPY   SEED  163 

On  the  grass. 

"I  will  close  his  eyes,"  said  the  head  gardener, 
"It  is  uncanny  to  see  a  dead  man  staring  at  the 
sun." 


164  POPPY   SEED 

THE  BASKET 

I 

THE  inkstand  is  full  oi  ink,  and  the  paper  lies  white 
and  unspotted,  in  the  round  of  light  thrown  by  a 
candle.  Puffs  of  darkness  sweep  into  the  corners,  and 
keep  rolling  through  the  room  behind  his  chair.  The 
air  is  silver  and  pearl,  for  the  night  is  liquid  with 
moonlight. 

See  how  the  roof  glitters,  like  ice  ! 

Over  there,  a  slice  of  yellow  cuts  into  the  silver- 
blue,  and  beside  it  stand  two  geraniums,  purple  be 
cause  the  light  is  silver-blue,  to-night. 

See !  She  is  coming,  the  young  woman  with  the 
bright  hair.  She  swings  a  basket  as  she  walks,  which 
uhe  places  on  the  sill,  between  the  geranium  stalks. 
He  laughs,  and  crumples  his  paper  as  he  leans  forward 


POPPY   SEED  165 

to  look.   "The  Basket  Filled  with  Moonlight,"  what 
a  title  for  a  book  ! 
The  bellying  clouds  swing  over  the  housetops. 

He  has  forgotten  the  woman  in  the  room  with  the 
geraniums.  He  is  beating  his  brain,  and  in  his  ear 
drums  hammers  his  heavy  pulse.  She  sits  on  the  win 
dow-sill,  with  the  basket  in  her  lap.  And  tap  !  She 
cracks  a  nut.  And  tap  !  Another.  Tap  !  Tap  !  Tap  ! 
The  shells  ricochet  upon  the  roof,  and  get  into  the 
gutters,  and  bounce  over  the  edge  and  disappear. 

"It  is  very  queer,"  thinks  Peter,  "the  basket  was 
empty,  I'm  sure.  How  could  nuts  appear  from  the 
atmosphere  ?  " 

The  silver-blue  moonlight  makes  the  geraniums 
purple,  and  the  roof  glitters  like  ice. 


166  POPPY  SEED 

II 

Five  o'clock.  The  geraniums  are  very  gay  in  their 
crimson  array.  The  bellying  clouds  swing  over  thv 
housetops,  and  over  the  roofs  goes  Peter  to  pay  his 
morning's  work  with  a  holiday. 

"Annette,  it  is  I.  Have  you  finished  ?  Can  I  come  ?  " 

Peter  jumps  through  the  window. 

"Dear,  are  you  alone  ?" 

"Look,  Peter,  the  dome  of  the  tabernacle  is  done. 
This  gold  thread  is  so  very  high,  I  am  glad  it  is  morn 
ing,  a  starry  sky  would  have  seen  me  bankrupt.  Sit 
down,  now  tell  me,  is  your  story  going  well?" 

The  golden  dome  glittered  in  the  orange  of  the  set 
ting  sun.  On  the  walls,  at  intervals,  hung  altar-cloths 
and  chasubles,  and  copes,  and  stoles,  and  coffin  palls. 
All  stiff  with  rich  embroidery,  and  stitched  with  so 
much  artistry,  they  seemed  like  spun  and  woven  gems, 
or  flower-buds  new-opened  on  their  stems. 


POPPY   SEED  167 

Annette  looked  at  the  geraniums,  very  red  against 
the  blue  sky. 

"No  matter  how  I  try,  I  cannot  find  any  threaj 
of  such  a  red.  My  bleeding  hearts  drip  stuff  muddy 
in  comparison.  Heigh-ho  !  See  my  little  pecking  dove  ? 
I'm  in  love  with  my  own  temple.  Only  that  halo's 
wrong.  The  colour's  too  strong,  or  not  strong  enough. 
I  don't  know.  My  eyes  are  tired.  Oh,  Peter,  don't 
be  so  rough ;  it  is  valuable.  I  won't  do  any  more.  I 
promise.  You  tyrannise,  Dear,  that's  enough.  Now 
sit  down  and  amuse  me  while  I  rest." 

The  shadows  of  the  geraniums  creep  over  the  floor, 
and  begin  to  climb  the  opposite  wall. 

Peter  watches  her,  fluid  with  fatigue,  floating,  and 
drifting,  and  undulant  in  the  orange  glow.  His  senses 
flow  towards  her,  where  she  lies  supine  and  dreaming. 
Seeming  drowned  in  a  golden  halo. 


168  POPPY    SEED 

The  pungent  smell  of  the  geraniums  is  hard  to 
bear. 

He  pushes  against  her  knees,  and  brushes  his  lips 
across  her  languid  hands.  His  lips  are  hot  and  speech 
less.  He  woos  her,  quivering,  and  the  room  is  filled 
with  shadows,  for  the  sun  has  set.  But  she  only  un 
derstands  the  ways  of  a  needle  through  delicate  stuffs, 
and  the  shock  of  one  colour  on  another.  She  does  not 
see  that  this  is  the  same,  and  querulously  murmurs  his 
name. 

"Peter,  I  don't  want  it.   I  am  tired." 

And  he,  the  undesired,  burns  and  is  consumed. 

There  is  a  crescent  moon  on  the  rim  of  the  sky. 

Ill 

"Go  home,  now.  Peter.   To-night  is  full  moon,  I 
oust  be  alone." 
"How  soon  the  moon  is  full  again  !     Annette,  let 


POPPY  SEED  169 

me  stay.  Indeed,  Dear  Love,  I  shall  not  go  away. 
My  God,  but  you  keep  me  starved  !  You  write  'No 
Entrance  Here,5  over  all  the  doors.  Is  it  not  strange, 
my  Dear,  that  loving,  yet  you  deny  me  entrance 
everywhere.  Would  marriage  strike  you  blind,  or, 
hating  bonds  as  you  do,  why  should  I  be  denied  the 
rights  of  loving  if  I  leave  you  free  ?  You  want  the 
whole  of  me,  you  pick  my  brains  to  rest  you,  but  you 
give  me  not  one  heart-beat.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Sweet ! 
I  suffer  in  my  loving,  and  you  know  it.  I  cannot  feed 
my  life  on  being  a  poet.  Let  me  stay." 

"As  you  please,  poor  Peter,  but  it  will  hurt  me  if  you 
do.  It  will  crush  your  heart  and  squeeze  the  love  out." 

He  answered  gruffly,  "I  know  what  I'm  about." 

"Only  remember  one  thing  from  to-night.  My  work 
is  taxing  and  I  must  have  sight !  I  MUST  !" 

The  clear  moon  looks  in  between  the  geraniums. 
On  the  wall,  the  shadow  of  the  man  is  divided  from  the 
shadow  of  the  woman  by  a  silver  thread. 


170  POPPY   SEED 

They  are  eyes,  hundreds  of  eyes,  round  like  marbles ! 
Unwinking,  for  there  are  no  lids.  Blue,  black,  gray, 
and  hazel,  and  the  irises  are  cased  in  the  whites,  and 
they  glitter  and  spark  under  the  moon.  The  basket 
is  heaped  with  human  eyes.  She  cracks  off  the  whites 
and  throws  them  away.  They  ricochet  upon  the  roof, 
and  get  into  the  gutters,  and  bounce  over  the  edge  and 
disappear.  But  she  is  here,  quietly  sitting  on  the 
window-sill,  eating  human  eyes. 

The  silver-blue  moonlight  makes  the  geraniums 
purple,  and  the  roof  shines  like  ice. 

IV 

How  hot  the  sheets  are  !  His  skin  is  tormented  with 
pricks,  and  over  him  sticks,  and  never  moves,  an  eye. 
It  lights  the  sky  with  blood,  and  drips  blood.  And  the 
drops  sizzle  on  his  bare  skin,  and  he  smells  them  burn 
ing  in,  and  branding  his  body  with  the  name  "Annette." 


POPPY   SEED  171 

The  blood-red  sky  is  outside  his  window  now.  Is 
it  blood  or  fire  ?  Merciful  God  !  Fire  !  And  his  heart 
wrenches  and  pounds  "Annette!" 

The  lead  of  the  roof  is  scorching,  he  ricochets,  gets 
to  the  edge,  bounces  over  and  disappears. 

The  bellying  clouds  are  red  as  they  swing  over  the 
housetops. 

V 

The  air  is  of  silver  and  pearl,  for  the  night  is  liquid 
with  moonlight.  How  the  ruin  glistens,  like  a  palace 
of  ice  !  Only  two  black  holes  swallow  the  brilliance  of 
the  moon.  Deflowered  windows,  sockets  without  sight. 

A  man  stands  before  the  house.  He  sees  the  silver- 
blue  moonlight,  and  set  in  it,  over  his  head,  staring 
and  flickering,  eyes  of  geranium  red. 

Annette ! 


172  POPPY   SEED 

IN  A  CASTLE 

I 

OVER  the  yawning  chimney  hangs  the  fog.  Drip — 
hiss  —  drip  —  hiss  —  fall  the  raindrops  on  the  oaken 
log  which  burns,  and  steams,  and  smokes  the  ceiling 
beams.  Drip  —  hiss  —  the  rain  never  stops. 

The  wide,  state  bed  shivers  beneath  its  velvet  cover 
let.  Above,  dim,  in  the  smoke,  a  tarnished  coronet 
gleams  dully.  Overhead  hammers  and  chinks  the  rain. 
Fearfully  wails  the  wind  down  distant  corridors,  and 
there  comes  the  swish  and  sigh  of  rushes  lifted  off  the 
floors.  The  arras  blows  sidewise  out  from  the  wall, 
and  then  falls  back  again. 

It  is  my  lady's  key,  confided  with  much  nice 
cunning,  whisperingly.  He  enters  on  a  sob  of  wind, 


POPPY    SEED  173 

which  gutters  the  candles  almost  to  swaling.  The  fire 
flutters  and  drops.  Drip — hiss  —  the  rain  never  stops* 
He  shuts  the  door.  The  rushes  fall  again  to  stillness 
along  the  floor.  Outside,  the  wind  goes  wailing. 

The  velvet  coverlet  of  the  wide  bed  is  smooth  and 
cold.  Above,  in  the  firelight,  winks  the  coronet  of 
tarnished  gold.  The  knight  shivers  in  his  coat  of  fur, 
and  holds  out  his  hands  to  the  withering  flame.  She  is 
always  the  same,  a  sweet  coquette.  He  will  wait  for  her. 

How  the  log  hisses  and  drips  !  How  warm  and 
satisfying  will  be  her  lips  ! 

It  is  wide  and  cold,  the  state  bed;  but  when  her 
head  lies  under  the  coronet,  and  her  eyes  are  full  and 
wet  with  love,  and  when  she  holds  out  her  arms,  and 
the  velvet  counterpane  half  slips  from  her,  and  alarms 
her  trembling  modesty,  how  eagerly  he  will  leap  to 
cover  her,  and  blot  himself  beneath  the  quilt,  making 


174  POPPY   SEED 

her  laugh  and  tremble. 

Is  it  guilt  to  free  a  lady  from  her  palsied  lord,  ab 
sent  and  fighting,  terribly  abhorred  ? 

He  stirs  a  booted  heel  and  kicks  a  rolling  coal. 
His  spur  clinks  on  the  hearth.  Overhead,  the  rain 
hammers  and  chinks.  She  is  so  pure  and  whole.  Only 
because  he  has  her  soul  will  she  resign  herself  to  him, 
for  where  the  soul  has  gone,  the  body  must  be  given 
as  a  sign.  He  takes  her  by  the  divine  right  of  the  only 
lover.  He  has  sworn  to  fight  her  lord,  and  wed  her 
after.  Should  he  be  overborne,  she  will  die  adoring 
him,  forlorn,  shriven  by  her  great  love. 

Above,  the  coronet  winks  in  the  darkness.  Drip  — 
hiss  —  fall  the  raindrops.  The  arras  blows  out  from 
^he  wall,  and  a  door  bangs  in  a  far-off  hall. 

The  candles  swale.  In  the  gale  the  moat  below 
plunges  and  spatters.  Will  the  lady  lose  courage  and 


POPPY  SEED  175 

not  come  ? 

The  rain  claps  on  a  loosened  rafter. 
Is  that  laughter  ? 

The  room  is  filled  with  lisps  and  whispers.  Some 
thing  mutters.  One  candle  drowns  and  the  other  gut 
ters.  Is  that  the  rain  which  pads  and  patters,  is  it  the 
wind  through  the  winding  entries  which  chatters  ? 

The  state  bed  is  very  cold  and  he  is  alone.  How 
far  from  the  wall  the  arras  is  blown ! 

Christ's  Death  !  It  is  no  storm  which  makes  these 
little  chuckling  sounds.  By  the  Great  Wounds  of  Holy 
Jesus,  it  is  his  dear  lady,  kissing  and  clasping  some 
one  !  Through  the  sobbing  storm  he  hears  her  love 
take  form  and  flutter  out  in  words.  They  prick  into 
his  ears  and  stun  his  desire,  which  lies  within  him, 
hard  and  dead,  like  frozen  fire.  And  the  little  noise 
never  stops. 


176  POPPY   SEED 

Drip  —  hiss  —  the  rain  drops. 

He  tears  down  the  arras  from  before  an  inner  cham 
ber's  bolted  door. 

II 

The  state  bed  shivers  in  the  watery  dawn.  Drip  — • 
hiss  —  fall  the  raindrops.  For  the  storm  never  stops. 

On  the  velvet  coverlet  lie  two  bodies,  stripped  and 
fair  in  the  cold,  grey  air.  Drip  —  hiss  —  fall  the  blood- 
drops,  for  the  bleeding  never  stops.  The  bodies  lie 
quietly.  At  each  side  of  the  bed,  on  the  floor,  is  a  head. 
A  man's  on  this  side,  a  woman's  on  that,  and  the  red 
blood  oozes  along  the  rush  mat. 

A  wisp  of  paper  is  twisted  carefully  into  the  strands 
of  the  dead  man's  hair.  It  says,  "My  Lord:  Your 
wife's  paramour  has  paid  with  his  life  for  the  high 
favour." 

Through  the  lady's  silver  fillet  is  wound  another 


POPPY  SEED  177 

paper.  It  reads,  "Most  noble  Lord :  Your  wife's  mis 
deeds  are  as  a  double-stranded  necklace  of  beads. 
But  I  have  engaged  that,  on  your  return,  she  shall 
welcome  you  here.  She  will  not  spurn  your  love  as 
before,  you  have  still  the  best  part  of  her.  Her  bloocj, 
was  red,  her  body  white,  they  will  both  be  here  for 
your  delight.  The  soul  inside  was  a  lump  of  dirt,  I 
have  rid  you  of  that  with  a  spurt  of  my  sword  point. 
Good  luck  to  your  pleasure.  She  will  be  quite  com 
plaisant,  my  friend,  I  wager."  The  end  was  a  splashed 
flourish  of  ink. 

Hark  !  In  the  passage  is  heard  the  clink  of  armour, 
the  tread  of  a  heavy  man.  The  door  bursts  open  and 
standing  there,  his  thin  hair  wavering  in  the  glare  of 
steely  daylight,  is  my  Lord  of  Clair. 

Over  the  yawning  chimney  hangs  the  fog.  Drip  — 
hiss  —  drip  —  hiss  —  fall  the  raindrops.  Overhead 
hammers  and  chinks  the  rain  which  never  stops. 


178  POPPY   SEED 

The  velvet  coverlet  is  sodden  and  wet,  yet  the  roof 
beams  are  tight.  Overhead,  the  coronet  gleams  with 
its  blackened  gold,  winking  and  blinking.  Among  the 
rushes  three  corpses  are  growing  cold. 

m 

In  the  castle  church  you  may  see  them  stand, 

Two  sumptuous  tombs  on  either  hand 

Of  the  choir,  my  Lord's  and  my  Lady's,  grand 

In  sculptured  filigrees.   And  where  the  transepts  of 

the  church  expand, 

A  crusader,  come  from  the  Holy  Land, 
Lies  with  crossed  legs  and  embroidered  band. 
The  page's  name  became  a  brand 
For  shame.   He  was  buried  in  crawling  sand, 
After  having  been  burnt  by  royal  commando 


POPPY  SEED  179 

THE  BOOK  OF  HOURS  OF  SISTER 
CLOTILDE 

THE  Bell  in  the  convent  tower  swung. 
High  overhead  the  great  sun  hung, 
A  navel  for  the  curving  sky. 
The  air  was  a  blue  clarity. 

Swallows  flew, 

And  a  cock  crew. 

The  iron  clanging  sank  through  the  light  air, 
Rustled  over  with  blowing  branches.    A  flare 
Of  spotted  green,  and  a  snake  had  gone 
Into  the  bed  where  the  snowdrops  shone 

In  green  new-started, 

Their  white  bells  parted. 


180  POPPY   SEED 

Two  by  two,  in  a  long  brown  line, 
The  nuns  were  walking  to  breathe  the  fine 
Bright  April  air.   They  must  go  in  soon 
And  work  at  their  tasks  all  the  afternoon. 

But  this  time  is  theirs  ! 

They  walk  in  pairs. 

First  comes  the  Abbess,  preoccupied 

And  slow,  as  a  woman  often  tried, 

With  her  temper  in  bond.   Then  the  oldest  nun. 

Then  younger  and  younger,  until  the  last  one 

Has  a  laugh  on  her  lips, 

And  fairly  skips. 

They  wind  about  the  gravel  walks 
And  all  the  long  line  buzzes  and  talks. 
They  step  in  time  to  the  ringing  bell, 
With  scarcely  a  shadow.   The  sun  is  well 


POPPY  SEED  181 

In  the  core  of  a  sky 
Domed  silverly. 

Sister  Marguerite  said :  "The  pears  will  soon  bud." 
Sister  Angelique  said  she  must  get  her  spud 
And  free  the  earth  round  the  jasmine  roots. 
Sister  Veronique  said  :  "Oh,  look  at  those  shoots  ! 

There's  a  crocus  up, 

With  a  purple  cup." 

But  Sister  Clotilde  said  nothing  at  all, 
She  looked  up  and  down  the  old  grey  wall 
To  see  if  a  lizard  were  basking  there. 
She  looked  across  the  garden  to  where 

A  sycamore 

Flanked  the  garden  door. 

She  was  restless,  although  her  little  feet  danced, 
And  quite  unsatisfied,  for  it  chanced 


182  POPPY   SEED 

Her  morning's  work  had  hung  in  her  mind 
And  would  not  take  form.   She  could  not  find 

The  beautif ulness 

For  the  Virgin's  dress. 

Should  it  be  of  pink,  or  damasked  blue  ? 
Or  perhaps  lilac  with  gold  shotted  through  ? 
Should  it  be  banded  with  yellow  and  white 
Roses,  or  sparked  like  a  frosty  night  ? 

Or  a  crimson  sheen 

Over  some  sort  of  green  ? 

But  Clotilde's  eyes  saw  nothing  new 
In  all  the  garden,  no  single  hue 
So  lovely  or  so  marvellous 
That  its  use  would  not  seem  impious. 

So  on  she  walked, 

And  the  others  talked. 


POPPY   SEED  188 

Sister  Elisabeth  edged  away 

From  what  her  companion  had  to  say, 

For  Sister  Marthe  saw  the  world  in  little, 

She  weighed  every  grain  and  recorded  each  tittle. 

She  did  plain  stitching 

And  worked  in  the  kitchen. 

:<  Sister  Radegonde  knows  the  apples  won't  last, 
I  told  her  so  this  Friday  past. 
I  must  speak  to  her  before  Compline." 
Her  words  were  like  dust  motes  in  slanting  sunshine. 

The  other  nun  sighed, 

With  her  pleasure  quite  dried. 

Suddenly  Sister  Berthe  cried  out : 
*  The  snowdrops  are  blooming  ! "   They  turned  about. 
The  little  white  cups  bent  over  the  ground, 
And  in  among  the  light  stems  wound 


184  POPPY  SEED 

A  crested  snake, 
With  his  eyes  awake. 

His  body  was  green  with  a  metal  brightness 
Like  an  emerald  set  in  a  kind  of  whiteness, 
And  all  down  his  curling  length  were  disks, 
Evil  vermilion  asterisks, 

They  paled  and  flooded 

As  wounds  fresh-blooded. 

His  crest  was  amber  glittered  with  blue, 
And  opaque  so  the  sun  came  shining  through* 
It  seemed  a  crown  with  fiery  points. 
When  he  quivered  all  down  his  scaly  joints, 

From  every  slot 

The  sparkles  shot. 

The  nuns  huddled  tightly  together,  fear 
Catching  their  senses.   But  Clotilde  must  peer 


POPPY   SEED  185 

More  closely  at  the  beautiful  snake, 

She  seemed  entranced  and  eased.   Could  she  make 

Colours  so  rare, 

The  dress  were  there. 

The  Abbess  shook  off  her  lethargy. 
"Sisters,  we  will  walk  on,"  said  she. 
Sidling  away  from  the  snowdrop  bed, 
The  line  curved  forwards,  the  Abbess  ahead. 
Only  Clotilde 
Was  the  last  to  yield. 

When  the  recreation  hour  was  done 
Each  went  in  to  her  task.   Alone 
In  the  library,  with  its  great  north  light, 
Clotilde  wrought  at  an  exquisite 

Wreath  of  flowers 

For  her  Book  of  Hours. 


186  POPPY   SEED 

She  twined  the  little  crocus  blooms 
With  snowdrops  and  daffodils,  the  glooms 
Of  laurel  leaves  were  interwoven 
With  Stars-of-Bethlehem,  and  cloven 

Fritillaries, 

Whose  colour  varies. 

They  framed  the  picture  she  had  made, 

Half-delighted  and  half -afraid. 

In  a  courtyard  with  a  lozenged  floor 

The  Virgin  watched,  and  through  the  arched  door 

The  angel  came 

Like  a  springing  flame. 

His  wings  were  dipped  in  violet  fire, 

His  limbs  were  strung  to  holy  desire. 

He  lowered  his  head  and  passed  under  the  arch, 

And  the  air  seemed  beating  a  solemn  march. 


POPPY   SEED  187 

The  Virgin  waited 
With  eyes  dilated. 

Her  face  was  quiet  and  innocent, 
And  beautiful  with  her  strange  assent. 
A  silver  thread  about  her  head 
Her  halo  was  poised.   But  in  the  stead 

Of  her  gown,  there  remained 

The  vellum,  unstained. 

Clotilde  painted  the  flowers  patiently, 
Lingering  over  each  tint  and  dye. 
She  could  spend  great  pains,  now  she  had  seen 
That  curious,  unimagined  green. 

A  colour  so  strange 

It  had  seemed  to  change. 

She  thought  it  had  altered  while  she  gazed. 
At  first  it  had  been  simple  green ;  then  glazed 


188  POPPY   SEED 

All  over  with  twisting  flames,  each  spot 
A  molten  colour,  trembling  and  hot, 

And  every  eye 

Seemed  to  liquefy. 

She  had  made  a  plan,  and  her  spirits  danced. 
After  all,  she  had  only  glanced 
At  that  wonderful  snake,  and  she  must  know 
Just  what  hues  made  the  creature  throw 

Those  splashes  and  sprays 

Of  prismed  rays. 

When  evening  prayers  were  sung  and  said, 
The  nuns  lit  their  tapers  and  went  to  bed. 
And  soon  in  the  convent  there  was  no  light, 
For  the  moon  did  not  rise  until  late  that  night, 

Only  the  shine 

Of  the  lamp  at  the  shrine. 


POPPY   SEED  189 

Clotilde  lay  still  in  her  trembling  sheets. 
Her  heart  shook  her  body  with  its  beats. 
She  could  not  see  till  the  moon  should  rise, 
So  she  whispered  prayers  and  kept  her  eyes 

On  the  window-square 

Till  light  should  be  there. 

The  faintest  shadow  of  a  branch 

Fell  on  the  floor.   Clotilde,  grown  staunch 

With  solemn  purpose,  softly  rose 

And  fluttered  down  between  the  rows 

Of  sleeping  nuns. 

She  almost  runs. 

She  must  go  out  through  the  little  side  door 
Lest  the  nuns  who  were  always  praying  before 
The  Virgin's  altar  should  hear  her  pass. 
She  pushed  the  bolts,  and  over  the  grass 


190  POPPY   SEED 

The  red  moon's  brim 
Mounted  its  rim. 

Her  shadow  crept  up  the  convent  wall 

As  she  swiftly  left  it,  over  all 

The  garden  lay  the  level  glow 

Of  a  moon  coming  up,  very  big  and  slow. 

The  gravel  glistened. 

She  stopped  and  listened. 

It  was  still,  and  the  moonlight  was  getting  clearer. 
She  laughed  a  little,  but  she  felt  queerer 
Than  ever  before.   The  snowdrop  bed 
Was  reached  and  she  bent  down  her  head. 

On  the  striped  ground 

The  snake  was  wound. 

For  a  moment  Clotilde  paused  in  alarm, 

Then  she  rolled  up  her  sleeve  and  stretched  out  her  arm. 


POPPY   SEED  191 

She  thought  she  heard  steps,  she  must  be  quick. 
She  darted  her  hand  out,  and  seized  the  thick 

Wriggling  slime, 

Only  just  in  time. 

The  old  gardener  came  muttering  down  the  path. 
And  his  shadow  fell  like  a  broad,  black  swath, 
And  covered  Clotilde  and  the  angry  snake. 
He  bit  her,  but  what  difference  did  that  make  ! 

The  Virgin  should  dress 

In  his  loveliness. 

The  gardener  was  covering  his  new-set  plants 
For  the  night  was  chilly,  and  nothing  daunts 
Your  lover  of  growing  things.   He  spied 
Something  to  do  and  turned  aside, 

And  the  moonlight  streamed 

On  Clotilde,  and  gleamed. 


192  POPPY   SEED 

His  business  finished  the  gardener  rose. 
He  shook  and  swore,  for  the  moonlight  shows 
A  girl  with  a  fire-tongued  serpent,  she 
Grasping  him,  laughing,  while  quietly 

Her  eyes  are  weeping. 

Is  he  sleeping  ? 

He  thinks  it  is  some  holy  vision, 
Brushes  that  aside  and  with  decision 
Jumps  —  and  hits  the  snake  with  his  stick, 
Crushes  his  spine,  and  then  with  quick, 

Urgent  command 

Takes  her  hand. 

The  gardener  sucks  the  poison  and  spits, 
Cursing  and  praying  as  befits 
A  poor  old  man  half  out  of  his  wits. 
"  Whatever  possessed  you,  Sister,  it's 


POPPY   SEED  193 

Hatched  of  a  devil 
And  very  evil. 

It's  one  of  them  horrid  basilisks 

You  read  about.   They  say  a  man  risks 

His  life  to  touch  it,  but  I  guess  I've  sucked  it 

Out  by  now.   Lucky  I  chucked  it 

Away  from  you. 

I  guess  you'll  do." 

"Oh,  no,  Frangois,  this  beautiful  beast 
Was  sent  to  me,  to  me  the  least 
Worthy  in  all  our  convent,  so  I 
Could  finish  my  picture  of  the  Most  High 

And  Holy  Queen, 

In  her  dress  of  green. 

He  is  dead  now,  but  his  colours  won't  fade 
At  once,  and  by  noon  I  shall  have  made 


194  POPPY   SEED 

The  Virgin's  robe.   Oh,  Francois,  see 
How  kindly  the  moon  shines  down  on  me  ! 

I  can't  die  yet, 

For  the  task  was  set." 

"You  won't  die  now,  for  I've  sucked  it  away," 
Grumbled  old  Frangois,  "so  have  your  play. 
If  the  Virgin  is  set  on  snake's  colours  so  strong, — " 
"Frangois,  don't  say  things  like  that,  it  is  wrong." . 
So  Clotilde  vented 
Her  creed.   He  repented. 

"He  can't  do  no  more  harm,  Sister,"  said  he. 
"Paint  as  much  as  you  like."   And  gingerly 
He  picked  up  the  snake  with  his  stick.   Clotilde 
Thanked  him,  and  begged  that  he  would  shield 
Her  secret,  though  itching 
To  talk  in  the  kitchen. 


POPPY   SEED  195 

The  gardener  promised,  not  very  pleased, 
And  Clotilde,  with  the  strain  of  adventure  eased, 
Walked  quickly  home,  while  the  half-high  moon 
Made  her  beautiful  snake-skin  sparkle,  and  soon 

In  her  bed  she  lay 

And  waited  for  day. 

At  dawn's  first  saffron-spired  warning 
Clotilde  was  up.   And  all  that  morning, 
Except  when  she  went  to  the  chapel  to  pray, 
She  painted,  and  when  the  April  day 

Was  hot  with  sun, 

Clotilde  had  done. 

Done  !  She  drooped,  though  her  heart  beat  loud 
At  the  beauty  before  her,  and  her  spirit  bowed 
To  the  Virgin  her  finely- touched  thought  had  made. 
A  lady,  in  excellence  arrayed, 


196  POPPY  SEED 

And  wonder-souled. 
Christ's  Blessed  Mould ! 

From  long  fasting  Clotilde  felt  weary  and  faint, 
But  her  eyes  were  starred  like  those  of  a  saint 
Enmeshed  in  Heaven's  beatitude. 
A  sudden  clamour  hurled  its  rude 

Force  to  break 

Her  vision  awake. 

The  door  nearly  leapt  from  its  hinges,  pushed 
By  the  multitude  of  nuns.   They  hushed 
When  they  saw  Clotilde,  in  perfect  quiet, 
Smiling,  a  little  perplexed  at  the  riot. 

And  all  the  hive 

Buzzed  "She's  alive!" 

Old  Franc. ois  had  told.  He  had  found  the  strain 
Of  silence  too  great,  and  preferred  the  pain 


POPPY   SEED  197 

Of  a  conscience  outraged.  The  news  had  spread, 
And  all  were  convinced  Clotilde  must  be  dead. 

For  Francois,  to  spite  them, 

Had  not  seen  fit  to  right  them. 

The  Abbess,  unwontedly  trembling  and  mild, 
Put  her  arms  round  Clotilde  and  wept,  "My  child, 
Has  the  Holy  Mother  showed  you  this  grace, 
To  spare  you  while  you  imaged  her  face  ? 

How  could  we  have  guessed 

Our  convent  so  blessed  ! 

A  miracle  !  But  Oh  !  My  Lamb  ! 
To  have  you  die  !   And  I,  who  am 
A  hollow,  living  shell,  the  grave 
Is  empty  of  me.   Holy  Mary,  I  crave 

To  be  taken,  Dear  Mother, 

Instead  of  this  other." 


198  POPPY  SEED 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  and  silently  prayed, 
With  anguished  hands  and  tears  delayed 
To  a  painful  slowness.   The  minutes  drew 
To  fractions.   Then  the  west  wind  blew 

The  sound  of  a  bell, 

On  a  gusty  swell. 

It  came  skipping  over  the  slates  of  the  roof, 

And  the  bright  bell-notes  seemed  a  reproof 

To  grief,  in  the  eye  of  so  fair  a  day. 

The  Abbess,  comforted,  ceased  to  pray. 
And  the  sun  lit  the  flowers 
In  Clotilde's  Book  of  Hours. 

It  glistened  the  green  of  the  Virgin's  dress 
And  made  the  red  spots,  in  a  flushed  excess, 
Pulse  and  start ;  and  the  violet  wings 
Of  the  angel  were  colour  which  shines  and  sings. 


POPPY    SEED  199 

The  book  seemed  a  choir 
Of  rainbow  fire. 

The  Abbess  crossed  herself,  and  each  nun 
Did  the  same,  then  one  by  one, 
They  filed  to  the  chapel,  that  incensed  prayers 
Might  plead  for  the  life  of  this  sister  of  theirs. 
Clotilde,  the  Inspired ! 

She  only  felt  tired. 


The  old  chronicles  say  she  did  not  die 
Until  heavy  with  years.   And  that  is  why 
There  hangs  in  the  convent  church  a  basket 
Of  osiered  silver,  a  holy  casket, 

And  treasured  therein 

A  dried  snake-skin. 


200  POPPY   SEED 

THE  EXETER  ROAD 

PANELS  of  claret  and  blue  which  shine 
Under  the  moon  like  lees  of  wine. 
A  coronet  done  in  a  golden  scroll, 
And  wheels  which  blunder  and  creak  as  they  roll 
Through  the  muddy  ruts  of  a  moorland  track. 
They  daren't  look  back  ! 

They  are  whipping  and  cursing  the  horses.   Lord  ! 
What  brutes  men  are  when  they  think  they're  scored. 
Behind,  my  bay  gelding  gallops  with  me, 
In  a  steaming  sweat,  it  is  fine  to  see 
That  coach,  all  claret,  and  gold,  and  blue, 
Hop  about  and  slue. 

They  are  scared  half  out  of  their  wits,  poor  souls. 
For  my  lord  has  a  casket  full  of  rolls 


POPPY   SEED  201 

Of  minted  sovereigns,  and  silver  bars. 
I  laugh  to  think  how  he'll  show  his  scars 
In  London  to-morrow.   He  whines  with  rage 
In  his  varnished  cage. 

My  lady  has  shoved  her  rings  over  her  toes. 
'Tis  an  ancient  trick  every  night-rider  knows. 
But  I  shall  relieve  her  of  them  yet, 
When  I  see  she  limps  in  the  minuet 
I  must  beg  to  celebrate  this  night, 
And  the  green  moonlight. 

There's  nothing  to  hurry  about,  the  plain 
Is  hours  long,  and  the  mud's  a  strain. 
My  gelding's  uncommonly  strong  in  the  loins, 
In  half  an  hour  I'll  bag  the  coins. 
'Tis  a  clear,  sweet  night  on  the  turn  of  Spring. 
The  chase  is  the  thing  ! 


202  POPPY  SEED 

How  the  coach  flashes  and  wobbles,  the  moon 
Dripping  down  so  quietly  on  it.   A  tune 
Is  beating  out  of  the  curses  and  screams, 
And  the  cracking  all  through  the  painted  seams. 
Steady,  old  horse,  we'll  keep  it  in  sight. 
'Tis  a  rare  fine  night ! 

There's  a  clump  of  trees  on  the  dip  of  the  down, 
And  the  sky  shimmers  where  it  hangs  over  the  town. 
It  seems  a  shame  to  break  the  air 
In  two  with  this  pistol,  but  I've  my  share 
Of  drudgery  like  other  men. 
His  hat  ?  Amen  ! 

Hold  up,  you  beast,  now  what  the  devil ! 
Confound  this  moor  for  a  pockholed,  evil, 
Rotten  marsh.   My  right  leg's  snapped. 
'Tis  a  mercy  he's  rolled,  but  I'm  nicely  capped. 


POPPY   SEED  203 

A  broken-legged  man  and  a  broken-legged  horse  ! 
They'll  get  me,  of  course. 

The  cursed  coach  will  reach  the  town 
And  they'll  all  come  out,  every  loafer  grown 
A  lion  to  handcuff  a  man  that's  down. 
What's  that  ?  Oh,  the  coachman's  bulleted  hat ! 
I'll  give  it  a  head  to  fit  it  pat. 
Thank  you  !  No  cravat. 


They  handcuffed  the  body  just  for  style, 
And  they  hung  him  in  chains  for  the  volatile 
Wind  to  scour  him  flesh  from  bones. 
Way  out  on  the  moor  you  can  hear  the  groans 
His  gibbet  makes  when  it  blows  a  gale. 
'Tis  a  common  tale. 


204  POPPY  SEED 

THE  SHADOW 

PAUL  JANNES  was  working  very  late, 
For  this  watch  must  be  done  by  eight 
To-morrow  or  the  Cardinal 
Would  certainly  be  vexed.   Of  all 
His  customers  the  old  prelate 
Was  the  most  important,  for  his  state 
Descended  to  his  watches  and  rings, 
And  he  gave  his  mistresses  many  things 
To  make  them  forget  his  age  and  smile 
When  he  paid  visits,  and  they  could  while 
The  time  away  with  a  diamond  locket 
Exceedingly  well.   So  they  picked  his  pocket, 
And  he  paid  in  jewels  for  his  slobbering  kisses. 
This  watch  was  made  to  buy  him  blisses 
From  an  Austrian  countess  on  her  way 
Home,  and  she  meant  to  start  next  day. 


POPPY   SEED  205 

Paul  worked  by  the  pointed,  tulip-flame 

Of  a  tallow  candle,  and  became 

So  absorbed,  that  his  old  clock  made  him  wince 

Striking  the  hour  a  moment  since. 

Its  echo,  only  half  apprehended, 

Lingered  about  the  room.   He  ended 

Screwing  the  little  rubies  in, 

Setting  the  wheels  to  lock  and  spin, 

Curling  the  infinitesimal  springs, 

Fixing  the  filigree  hands.   Chippings 

Of  precious  stones  lay  strewn  about. 

The  table  before  him  was  a  rout 

Of  splashes  and  sparks  of  coloured  light. 

There  was  yellow  gold  in  sheets,  and  quite 

A  heap  of  emeralds,  and  steel. 

Here  was  a  gem,  there  was  a  wheel. 

And  glasses  lay  like  limpid  lakes 

Shining  and  still,  and  there  were  flakes 


206  POPPY   SEED 

Of  silver,  and  shavings  of  pearl, 

And  little  wires  all  awhirl 

With  the  light  of  the  candle.   He  took  the  watch 

And  wound  its  hands  about  to  match 

The  time,  then  glanced  up  to  take  the  hour 

From  the  hanging  clock. 

Good,  Merciful  Power  I 
How  came  that  shadow  on  the  wall, 
No  woman  was  in  the  room  !    His  tall 
Chiffonier  stood  gaunt  behind 
His  chair.   His  old  cloak,  rabbit-lined, 
Hung  from  a  peg.   The  door  was  closed. 
Just  for  a  moment  he  must  have  dozed. 
He  looked  again,  and  saw  it  plain. 
The  silhouette  made  a  blue-black  stain 
On  the  opposite  wall,  and  it  never  wavered 
Even  when  the  candle  quavered 
Under  his  panting  breath.   What  made 
That  beautiful,  dreadful  thing,  that  shade 


POPPY   SEED  207 

Of  something  so  lovely,  so  exquisite, 
Cast  from  a  substance  which  the  sight 
Had  not  been  tutored  to  perceive  ? 
Paul  brushed  his  eyes  across  his  sleeve. 

Clear-cut,  the  Shadow  on  the  wall 
Gleamed  black,  and  never  moved  at  all. 

Paul's  watches  were  like  amulets, 

Wrought  into  patterns  and  rosettes ; 

The  cases  were  all  set  with  stones, 

And  wreathing  lines,  and  shining  zones. 

He  knew  the  beauty  in  a  curve, 

And  the  Shadow  tortured  every  nerve 

With  its  perfect  rhythm  of  outline 

Cutting  the  whitewashed  wall.   So  fine 

Was  the  neck  he  knew  he  could  have  spanned 

It  about  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

The  chin  rose  to  a  mouth  he  guessed, 


208  POPPY   SEED 

But  could  not  see,  the  lips  were  pressed 

Loosely  together,  the  edges  close, 

And  the  proud  and  delicate  line  of  the  nose' 

Melted  into  a  brow,  and  there 

Broke  into  undulant  waves  of  hair. 

The  lady  was  edged  with  the  stamp  of  race* 

A  singular  vision  in  such  a  place. 

He  moved  the  candle  to  the  tall 
Chiffonier ;  the  Shadow  stayed  on  the  wall. 
He  threw  his  cloak  upon  a  chair, 
And  still  the  lady's  face  was  there. 
From  every  corner  of  the  room 
He  saw,  in  the  patch  of  light,  the  gloom 
That  was  the  lady.    Her  violet  bloom 
Was  almost  brighter  than  that  which  came 
From  his  candle's  tulip-flame. 
He  set  the  filigree  hands ;  he  laid 


POPPY    SEED  209 

The  watch  in  the  case  which  he  had  made ; 
He  put  on  his  rabbit  cloak,  and  snuffed 
His  candle  out.   The  room  seemed  stuffed 
With  darkness.   Softly  he  crossed  the  floor, 
And  let  himself  out  through  the  door. 

The  sun  was  flashing  from  every  pin 

And  wheel,  when  Paul  let  himself  in. 

The  whitewashed  walls  were  hot  with  light. 

The  room  was  the  core  of  a  chrysolite, 

Burning  and  shimmering  with  fiery  might. 

The  sun  was  so  bright  that  no  shadow  could  fall 

From  the  furniture  upon  the  wall. 

Paul  sighed  as  he  looked  at  the  empty  space 

Where  a  glare  usurped  the  lady's  place. 

He  settled  himself  to  his  work,  but  his  mind 

Wandered,  and  he  would  wake  to  find 

His  hand  suspended,  his  eyes  grown  dim, 


210  POPPY   SEED 

And  nothing  advanced  beyond  the  rim 

Of  his  dreaming.  The  Cardinal  sent  to  pay 

For  his  watch,  which  had  purchased  so  fine  a  day. 

But  Paul  could  hardly  touch  the  gold, 

It  seemed  the  price  of  his  Shadow,  sold. 

With  the  first  twilight  he  struck  a  match 

And  watched  the  little  blue  stars  hatch 

Into  an  egg  of  perfect  flame. 

He  lit  his  candle,  and  almost  in  shame 

At  his  eagerness,  lifted  his  eyes. 

The  Shadow  was  there,  and  its  precise 

Outline  etched  the  cold,  white  wall. 

The  young  man  swore,  "By  God  !  You,  Paul, 

There's  something  the  matter  with  your  brain. 

Go  home  now  and  sleep  off  the  strain." 

The  next  day  was  a  storm,  the  rain 
Whispered  and  scratched  at  the  window-pane. 


POPPY   SEED  211 

A  grey  and  shadowless  morning  filled 

The  little  shop.  The  watches,  chilled, 

Were  dead  and  sparkless  as  burnt-out  coals. 

The  gems  lay  on  the  table  like  shoals 

Of  stranded  shells,  their  colours  faded, 

Mere  heaps  of  stone,  dull  and  degraded. 

Paul's  head  was  heavy,  his  hands  obeyed 

No  orders,  for  his  fancy  strayed. 

His  work  became  a  simple  round 

Of  watches  repaired  and  watches  wound. 

The  slanting  ribbons  of  the  rain 

Broke  themselves  on  the  window-pane, 

But  Paul  saw  the  silver  lines  in  vain. 

Only  when  the  candle  was  lit 

And  on  the  wall  just  opposite 

He  watched  again  the  coming  of  IT, 

Could  he  trace  a  line  for  the  joy  of  his  soul 

And  over  his  hands  regain  control. 


POPPY   SEED 

Paul  lingered  late  in  his  shop  that  night 

And  the  designs  which  his  delight 

Sketched  on  paper  seemed  to  be 

A  tribute  offered  wistfully 

To  the  beautiful  shadow  of  her  who  came 

And  hovered  over  his  candle  flame. 

In  the  morning  he  selected  all 

His  perfect  jacinths.   One  large  opal 

Hung  like  a  milky,  rainbow  moon 

In  the  centre,  and  blown  in  loose  festoon 

The  red  stones  quivered  on  silver  threads 

To  the  outer  edge,  where  a  single,  fine 

Band  of  mother-of-pearl  the  line 

Completed.   On  the  other  side, 

The  creamy  porcelain  of  the  face 

Bore  diamond  hours,  and  no  lace 

Of  cotton  or  silk  could  ever  be 


POPPY    SEED  213 

Tossed  into  being  more  airily 
Than  the  filmy  golden  hands ;  the  time 
Seemed  to  tick  away  in  rhyme. 
When,  at  dusk,  the  Shadow  grew 
Upon  the  wall,  Paul's  work  was  through- 
Holding  the  watch,  he  spoke  to  her : 
*Lady,  Beautiful  Shadow,  stir 
Into  one  brief  sign  of  being. 
Turn  your  eyes  this  way,  and  seeing 
This  watch,  made  from  those  sweet  curves 
Where  your  hair  from  your  forehead  swerves, 
Accept  the  gift  which  I  have  wrought 
With  your  fairness  in  my  thought. 
Grant  me  this,  and  I  shall  be 
Honoured  overwhelmingly." 

The  Shadow  rested  black  and  still, 

And  the  wind  sighed  over  the  window-sill. 


214  POPPY   SEED 

Paul  put  the  despised  watch  away 
And  laid  out  before  him  his  array 
Of  stones  and  metals,  and  when  the  morning 
Struck  the  stones  to  their  best  adorning, 
He  chose  the  brightest,  and  this  new  watch 
Was  so  light  and  thin  it  seemed  to  catch 
The  sunlight's  nothingness,  and  its  gleam. 
Topazes  ran  in  a  foamy  stream 
Over  the  cover,  the  hands  were  studded 
With  garnets,  and  seemed  red  roses,  budded. 
The  face  was  of  crystal,  and  engraved 
Upon  it  the  figures  flashed  and  waved 
With  zircons,  and  beryls,  and  amethysts. 
It  took  a  week  to  make,  and  his  trysts 
At  night  with  the  Shadow  were  his  alone. 
Paul  swore  not  to  speak  till  his  task  was  done. 
The  night  that  the  jewel  was  worthy  to  give. 


POPPY  SEED  215 

Paul  watched  the  long  hours  of  daylight  live 

To  the  faintest  streak ;  then  lit  his  light, 

And  sharp  against  the  wall's  pure  white 

The  outline  of  the  Shadow  started 

Into  form.   His  burning-hearted 

Words  so  long  imprisoned  swelled 

To  tumbling  speech.   Like  one  compelled, 

He  told  the  lady  all  his  love, 

And  holding  out  the  watch  above 

His  head,  he  knelt,  imploring  some 

Littlest  sign. 

The  Shadow  was  dumb. 

Weeks  passed,  Paul  worked  in  fevered  haste, 

And  everything  he  made  he  placed 

Before  his  lady.   The  Shadow  kept 

Its  perfect  passiveness.   Paul  wept. 

He  wooed  her  with  the  work  of  his  hands, 


216  POPPY   SEED 

He  waited  for  those  dear  commands 
She  never  gave.   No  word,  no  motion, 
Eased  the  ache  of  his  devotion. 
His  days  passed  in  a  strain  of  toil, 
His  nights  burnt  up  in  a  seething  coil. 
Seasons  shot  by,  uncognisant 
He  worked.   The  Shadow  came  to  haunt 
Even  his  days.    Sometimes  quite  plain 
He  saw  on  the  wall  the  blackberry  stain 
Of  his  lady's  picture.   No  sun  was  bright 
Enough  to  dazzle  that  from  his  sight. 

There  were  moments  when  he  groaned  to  see 

His  life  spilled  out  so  uselessly, 

Begging  for  boons  the  Shade  refused, 

His  finest  workmanship  abused, 

The  iridescent  bubbles  he  blew 

Into  lovely  existence,  poor  and  few 


POPPY   SEED  217 

In  the  shadowed  eyes.   Then  he  would  curse 

Himself  and  her  !   The  Universe  ! 

And  more,  the  beauty  he  could  not  make, 

And  give  her,  for  her  comfort's  sake  ! 

He  would  beat  his  weary,  empty  hands 

Upon  the  table,  would  hold  up  strands 

Of  silver  and  gold,  and  ask  her  why 

She  scorned  the  best  which  he  could  buy. 

He  would  pray  as  to  some  high-niched  saint, 

That  she  would  cure  him  of  the  taint 

Of  failure.   He  would  clutch  the  wall 

With  his  bleeding  fingers,  if  she  should  fall 

He  could  catch,  and  hold  her,  and  make  her  live  ! 

With  sobs  he  would  ask  her  to  forgive 

All  he  had  done.   And  broken,  spent, 

He  would  call  himself  impertinent ; 

Presumptuous ;  a  tradesman ;  a  nothing ;  driven 

To  madness  by  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

At  other  times  he  would  take  the  things 


218  POPPY   SEED 

He  had  made,  and  winding  them  on  strings, 

Hang  garlands  before  her,  and  burn  perfumes, 

Chanting  strangely,  while  the  fumes 

Wreathed  and  blotted  the  shadow  face, 

As  with  a  cloudy,  nacreous  lace. 

There  were  days  when  he  wooed  as  a  lover,  sighed 

In  tenderness,  spoke  to  his  bride, 

Urged  her  to  patience,  said  his  skill 

Should  break  the  spell.   A  man's  sworn  will 

Could  compass  life,  even  that,  he  knew. 

By  Christ's  Blood  !  He  would  prove  it  true  ! 

The  edge  of  the  Shadow  never  blurred. 
The  lips  of  the  Shadow  never  stirred. 

He  would  climb  on  chairs  to  reach  her  lips, 

And  pat  her  hair  with  his  finger-tips. 

But  instead  of  young,  warm  flesh  returning 


POPPY   SEED  219 

His  warmth,  the  wall  was  cold  and  burning 

Like  stinging  ice,  and  his  passion,  chilled, 

Lay  in  his  heart  like  some  dead  thing  killed 

At  the  moment  of  birth.   Then,  deadly  sick, 

He  would  lie  in  a  swoon  for  hours,  while  thick 

Phantasmagoria  crowded  his  brain, 

And  his  body  shrieked  in  the  clutch  of  pain. 

The  crisis  passed,  he  would  wake  and  smile 

With  a  vacant  joy,  half-imbecile 

And  quite  confused,  not  being  certain 

Why  he  was  suffering ;  a  curtain 

Fallen  over  the  tortured  mind  beguiled 

His  sorrow.   Like  a  little  child 

He  would  play  with  his  watches  and  gems,  with  glee 

Calling  the  Shadow  to  look  and  see 

How  the  spots  on  the  ceiling  danced  prettily 

When  he  flashed  his  stones.   "Mother,  the  green 

Has  slid  so  cunningly  in  between 


220  POPPY   SEED 

The  blue  and  the  yellow.   Oh,  please  look  down  !" 
Then,  with  a  pitiful,  puzzled  frown, 
He  would  get  up  slowly  from  his  play 
And  walk  round  the  room,  feeling  his  way 
From  table  to  chair,  from  chair  to  door, 
Stepping  over  the  cracks  in  the  floor, 
Till  reaching  the  table  again,  her  face 
Would  bring  recollection,  and  no  solace 
Could  balm  his  hurt  till  unconsciousness 
Stifled  him  and  his  great  distress. 

One  morning  he  threw  the  street  door  wide 
On  coming  in,  and  his  vigorous  stride 
Made  the  tools  on  his  table  rattle  and  jump. 
In  his  hands  he  carried  a  new-burst  clump 
Of  laurel  blossoms,  whose  smooth-barked  stalks 
Were  pliant  with  sap.   As  a  husband  talks 
To  the  wife  he  left  an  hour  ago, 


POPPY   SEED  221 

Paul  spoke  to  the  Shadow.   "Dear,  you  know 
To-day  the  calendar  calls  it  Spring, 
And  I  woke  this  morning  gathering 
Asphodels,  in  my  dreams,  for  you. 
So  I  rushed  out  to  see  what  flowers  blew 
Their  pink-and-purple-scented  souls 
Across  the  town-wind's  dusty  scrolls, 
And  made  the  approach  to  the  Market  Square 
A  garden  with  smells  and  sunny  air. 
I  feel  so  well  and  happy  to-day, 
I  think  I  shall  take  a  Holiday. 
And  to-night  we  will  have  a  Httle  treat. 
I  am  going  to  bring  you  something  to  eat ! " 
He  looked  at  the  Shadow  anxiously. 
It  was  quite  grave  and  silent.   He 
Shut  the  outer  door  and  came 
And  leant  against  the  window-frame. 
" Dearest,"  he  said,  "we  live  apart 
Although  I  bear  you  in  my  heart. 


222  POPPY   SEED 

We  look  out  each  from  a  different  world. 
At  any  moment  we  may  be  hurled 
Asunder.   They  follow  their  orbits,  we 
Obey  their  laws  entirely. 
Now  you  must  come,  or  I  go  there, 
Unless  we  are  willing  to  live  the  flare 
Of  a  lighted  instant  and  have  it  gone." 

A  bee  in  the  laurels  began  to  drone. 
A  loosened  petal  fluttered  prone. 

"  Man  grows  by  eating,  if  you  eat 

You  will  be  filled  with  our  life,  sweet 

** 

Will  be  our  planet  in  your  mouth. 

If  not,  I  must  parch  in  death's  wide  drouth 

Until  I  gain  to  where  you  are, 

And  give  you  myself  in  whatever  star 

May  happen.  O  You  Beloved  of  Me  ! 

Is  it  not  ordered  cleverly  ?" 


POPPY   SEED  223 

The  Shadow,  bloomed  like  a  plum,  and  clear, 
Hung  in  the  sunlight.   It  did  not  hear. 

Paul  slipped  away  as  the  dusk  began 

To  dim  the  little  shop.   He  ran 

To  the  nearest  inn,  and  chose  with  care 

As  much  as  his  thin  purse  could  bear. 

As  rapt-souled  monks  watch  over  the  baking 

Of  the  sacred  wafer,  and  through  the  making 

Of  the  holy  wine  whisper  secret  prayers 

That  God  will  bless  this  labour  of  theirs ; 

So  Paul,  in  a  sober  ecstasy, 

Purchased  the  best  which  he  could  buy. 

Returning,  he  brushed  his  tools  aside, 

And  laid  across  the  table  a  wide 

Napkin.   He  put  a  glass  and  plate 

On  either  side,  in  duplicate. 

Over  the  lady's,  excellent 


224  POPPY   SEED 

With  loveliness,  the  laurels  bent. 

In  the  centre  the  white-flaked  pastry  stood, 

And  beside  it  the  wine  flask.   Red  as  blood 

Was  the  wine  which  should  bring  the  lustihood 

Of  human  life  to  his  lady's  veins. 

When  all  was  ready,  all  which  pertains 

To  a  simple  meal  was  there,  with  eyes 

Lit  by  the  joy  of  his  great  emprise, 

He  reverently  bade  her  come, 

And  forsake  for  him  her  distant  home. 

He  put  meat  on  her  plate  and  filled  her  glass, 

And  waited  what  should  come  to  pass. 

The  Shadow  lay  quietly  on  the  wall. 
From  the  street  outside  came  a  watchman's  call 
"A  cloudy  night.   Rain  beginning  to  fall." 

And  still  he  waited.   The  clock's  slow  tick 
Knocked  on  the  silence.   Paul  turned  sick. 


POPPY   SEED  225 

He  filled  his  own  glass  full  of  wine ; 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a  paper.   The  twine 

Was  knotted,  and  he  searched  a  knife 

From  his  jumbled  tools.   The  cord  of  life 

Snapped  as  he  cut  the  little  string. 

He  knew  that  he  must  do  the  thing 

He  feared.   He  shook  powder  into  the  wine, 

And  holding  it  up  so  the  candle's  shine 

Sparked  a  ruby  through  its  heart, 

He  drank  it.    "Dear,  never  apart 

Again  !  You  have  said  it  was  mine  to  do. 

It  is  done,  and  I  am  come  to  you  !" 

Paul  Jannes  let  the  empty  wine-glass  fall, 
And  held  out  his  arms.   The  insentient  wall 
Stared  down  at  him  with  its  cold,  white  glare 
Unstained  !  The  Shadow  was  not  there  ! 
Paul  clutched  and  tore  at  his  tightening  throat. 


226  POPPY   SEED 

He  felt  the  veins  in  his  body  bloat, 

And  the  hot  blood  run  like  fire  and  stones 

Along  the  sides  of  his  cracking  bones. 

But  he  laughed  as  he  staggered  towards  the  door, 

And  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  sank  on  the  floor. 


The  Coroner  took  the  body  away, 
And  the  watches  were  sold  that  Saturday. 
The  Auctioneer  said  one  could  seldom  buy 
Such  watches,  and  the  prices  were  high. 


POPPY   SEED  227 

THE  FORSAKEN 

HOLY  Mother  of  God,  Merciful  Mary.  Hear  me  !  I 
am  very  weary.  I  have  come  from  a  village  miles  away, 
all  day  I  have  been  coming,  and  I  ache  for  such  far  roam 
ing.  I  cannot  walk  as  light  as  I  used,  and  my  thoughts 
grow  confused.  I  am  heavier  than  I  was.  Mary  Mother, 
you  know  the  cause  ! 

Beautiful  Holy  Lady,  take  my  shame  away  from  me ! 
Let  this  fear  be  only  seeming,  let  it  be  that  I  am  dream 
ing.  For  months  I  have  hoped  it  was  so,  now  I  am  afraid 
I  know.  Lady,  why  should  this  be  shame,  just  because 
I  haven't  got  his  name.  He  loved  me,  yes,  Lady,  he  did, 
and  he  couldn't  keep  it  hid.  We  meant  to  marry.  Why 
did  he  die  ? 

That  day  when  they  told  me  he  had  gone  down  in 


228  POPPY   SEED 

the  avalanche,  and  could  not  be  found  until  the  snow 
melted  in  Spring,  I  did  nothing.  I  could  not  cry.  Why 
should  he  die  ?  Why  should  he  die  and  his  child  live  ? 
His  little  child  alive  in  me,  for  my  comfort.  No,  Good 
God,  for  my  misery  !  I  cannot  face  the  shame,  to  be  a 
mother,  and  not  married,  and  the  poor  child  to  be 
reviled  for  having  no  father.  Merciful  Mother,  Holy 
Virgin,  take  away  this  sin  I  did.  Let  the  baby  not  be. 
Only  take  the  stigma  off  of  me  ! 

I  have  told  no  one  but  you,  Holy  Mary.  My  mother 
would  call  me  "whore,"  and  spit  upon  me ;  the  priest 
would  have  me  repent,  and  have  the  rest  of  my  life  spent 
in  a  convent.  I  am  no  whore,  no  bad  woman,  he  loved 
me,  and  we  were  to  be  married.  I  carried  him  always 
in  my  heart,  what  did  it  matter  if  I  gave  him  the  least 
part  of  me  too  ?  You  were  a  virgin,  Holy  Mother,  but 
you  had  a  son,  you  know  there  are  times  when  a  woman 
must  give  all.  There  is  some  call  to  give  and  hold  back 


POPPY   SEED  229 

nothing.  I  swear  I  obeyed  God  then,  and  this  child 
who  lives  in  me  is  the  sign.  What  am  I  saying  ?  He  is 
dead,  my  beautiful,  strong  man  !  I  shall  never  feel  him 
caress  me  again.  This  is  the  only  baby  I  shall  have. 
Oh,  Holy  Virgin ,  protect  my  baby  !  My  little,  helpless 
baby  ! 

He  will  look  like  his  father,  and  he  will  be  as  fast  a 
runner  and  as  good  a  shot.  Not  that  he  shall  be  no 
scholar  neither.  He  shall  go  to  school  in  winter,  and 
learn  to  read  and  write,  and  my  father  will  teach  him 
to  carve,  so  that  he  can  make  the  little  horses,  and 
cows,  and  chamois,  out  of  white  wood.  Oh,  No  !  No  ! 
No  !  How  can  I  think  such  things,  I  am  not  good.  My 
father  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  boy,  I  shall  be 
an  outcast  thing.  Oh,  Mother  of  our  Lord  God,  be  mer 
ciful,  take  away  my  shame  !  Let  my  body  be  as  it  was 
before  he  came.  No  little  baby  for  me  to  keep  under 
neath  my  heart  for  those  long  months.  To  live  for  and 


230  POPPY   SEED 

to  get  comfort  from.  I  cannot  go  home  and  tell  my 
mother.  She  is  so  hard  and  righteous.  She  never  loved 
my  father,  and  we  were  born  for  duty,  not  for  love.  I 
cannot  face  it.  Holy  Mother,  take  my  baby  away ! 
Take  away  my  little  baby!  I  don't  want  it,  I  can't 
bear  it ! 

And  I  shall  have  nothing,  nothing  !  Just  be  known 
as  a  good  girl.  Have  other  men  want  to  marry  me, 
whom  I  could  not  touch,  after  having  known  my  man. 
Known  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  beautiful  white 
body,  and  the  depth  of  his  love,  on  the  high  Summer 
Alp,  with  the  moon  above,  and  the  pine-needles  all 
shiny  in  the  light  of  it.  He  is  gone,  my  man,  I  shall 
never  hear  him  or  feel  him  again,  but  I  could  not  touch 
another.  I  would  rather  lie  under  the  snow  with  my 
own  man  in  my  arms  ! 

So  I  shall  live  on  and  on.  Just  a  good  woman.  With 


POPPY   SEED  231 

nothing  to  warm  my  heart  where  he  lay,  and  where  he 
left  his  baby  for  me  to  care  for.  I  shall  not  be  quite 
human,  I  think.  Merely  a  stone-dead  creature.  They 
will  respect  me.  What  do  I  care  for  respect !  You  didn't 
care  for  people's  tongues  when  you  were  carrying 
our  Lord  Jesus.  God  had  my  man  give  me  my  baby, 
when  He  knew  that  He  was  going  to  take  him  away.  His 
lips  will  comfort  me,  his  hands  will  soothe  me.  All  day 
I  will  work  at  my  lace-making,  and  all  night  I  will  keep 
him  warm  by  my  side  and  pray  the  blessed  Angels  to 
cover  him  with  their  wings.  Dear  Mother,  what  is  it 
that  sings  ?  I  hear  voices  singing,  and  lovely  silver 
trumpets  through  it  all.  They  seem  just  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall.  Let  me  keep  my  baby,  Holy  Mother. 
He  is  only  a  poor  lace-maker's  baby,  with  a  stain  upon 
him,  but  give  me  strength  to  bring  him  up  to  be  a  man. 


232  POPPY   SEED 


LATE  SEPTEMBER 

TANG  of  fruitage  in  the  air ; 
Red  boughs  bursting  everywhere ; 
Shimmering  of  seeded  grass ; 
Hooded  gentians  all  a 'mass. 

Warmth  of  earth,  and  cloudless  wind 
Tearing  off  the  husky  rind, 
Blowing  feathered  seeds  to  fall 
By  the  sun-baked,  sheltering  wall. 

Beech  trees  in  a  golden  haze ; 
Hardy  sumachs  all  ablaze, 
Glowing  through  the  silver  birches. 
How  that  pine  tree  shouts  and  lurches  ! 


POPPY   SEED  233 

From  the  sunny  door- jamb  high, 
Swings  the  shell  of  a  butterfly. 
Scrape  of  insect  violins 
Through  the  stubble  shrilly  dins. 

Every  blade's  a  minaret 
Where  a  small  muezzin's  set, 
Loudly  calling  us  to  pray 
At  the  miracle  of  day. 

Then  the  purple-lidded  night 
Westering  comes,  her  footsteps  light 
Guided  by  the  radiant  boon 
Of  a  sickle-shaped  new  moon. 


234  POPPY   SEED 

THE  PIKE 

IN  the  brown  water, 

Thick  and  silver-sheened  in  the  sunshine, 
> 
Liquid  and  cool  in  the  shade  of  the  reeds, 

A  pike  dozed. 

Lost  among  the  shadows  of  stems 

He  lay  unnoticed. 

Suddenly  he  flicked  his  tail, 

And  a  green-and-copper  brightness 

Ran  under  the  water. 

Out  from  under  the  reeds 
Came  the  olive-green  light, 
And  orange  flashed  up 
Through  the  sun-thickened  water. 
So  the  fish  passed  across  the  pool, 
Green  and  copper, 


POPPY   SEED  235 

A  darkness  and  a  gleam, 

And  the  blurred  reflections  of  the  willows  on  the 

opposite  bank 
Received  it. 


236  POPPY  SEED 

THE  BLUE  SCARF 

PALE,  with  the  blue  of  high  zeniths,  shimmered  over 

with  silver,  brocaded 
In  smooth,  running  patterns,  a  soft  stuff,  with  dark 

knotted  fringes,  it  lies  there, 
Warm  from  a  woman's  soft  shoulders,  and  my  fingers 

close  on  it,  caressing. 
Where  is  she,  the  woman  who  wore  it  ?   The  scent  of 

her  lingers  and  drugs  me  ! 
A  languor,  fire-shotted,  runs  through  me,  and  I  crush 

the  scarf  down  on  my  face, 
And  gulp  in  the  warmth  and  the  blueness,  and  my  eyes 

swim  in  cool-tinted  heavens. 

Around  me  are  columns  of  marble,  and  a  diapered,  sun- 
flickered  pavement. 
Rose-leaves  blow  and  patter  against  it.   Below  the 

stone  steps  a  lute  tinkles. 


POPPY   SEED  237 

A  jar  of  green  jade  throws  its  shadow  half  over  the 

floor.   A  big-bellied 

Frog  hops  through  the  sunlight  and  plops  in  the  gold- 
bubbled  water  of  a  basin, 
Sunk  in  the  black  and  white  marble.   The  west  wind 

has  lifted  a  scarf 
On  the  seat  close  beside  me,  the  blue  of  it  is  a  violent 

outrage  of  colour. 
She  draws  it  more  closely  about  her,  and  it  ripples 

beneath  her  slight  stirring. 
Her  kisses  are  sharp  buds  of  fire;  and  I  burn  back 

against  her,  a  jewel 
Hard  and  white ;  a  stalked,  flaming  flower ;  till  I  break 

to  a  handful  of  cinders, 
And  open  my  eyes  to  the  scarf,  shining  blue  in  the 

afternoon  sunshine. 

How  loud  clocks  can  tick  when  a  room  is  empty,  and 
one  is  alone  ! 


POPPY   SEED 


WHITE  AND  GREEN 

HEY  !  My  daffodil-crowned, 

Slim  and  without  sandals  ! 

As  the  sudden  spurt  of  flame  upon  darkness 

So  my  eyeballs  are  startled  with  you, 

Supple-limbed  youth  among  the  fruit-trees, 

Light  runner  through  tasselled  orchards. 

You  are  an  almond  flower  unsheathed 

Leaping  and  flickering  between  the  budded  branches^ 


POPPY   SEED 


AUBADE 

As  I  would  free  the  white  almond  from  the  green 

husk 

So  would  I  strip  your  trappings  off, 
Beloved. 

And  fingering  the  smooth  and  polished  kernel 
I  should  see  that  in  my  hands  glittered  a  gem  beyond 

counting. 


240  POPPY  SEED 


MUSIC 

THE  neighbour  sits  in  his  window  and  plays  the  flute. 

From  my  bed  I  can  hear  him, 

And  the  round  notes  flutter  and  tap  about  the  room, 

And  hit  against  each  other, 

Blurring  to  unexpected  chords. 

It  is  very  beautiful, 

With  the  little  flute-notes  all  about  me, 

In  the  darkness. 

In  the  daytime, 

The  neighbour  eats  bread  and  onions  with  one  hand 

And  copies  music  with  the  other. 

He  is  fat  and  has  a  bald  head, 

So  I  do  not  look  at  him, 

But  run  quickly  past  his  window. 


POPPY  SEED  241 

There  is  always  the  sky  to  look  at, 
Or  the  water  in  the  well ! 

But  when  night  comes  and  he  plays  his  flute, 

I  think  of  him  as  a  young  man, 

With  gold  seals  hanging  from  his  watch, 

And  a  blue  coat  with  silver  buttons. 

As  I  lie  in  my  bed 

The  flute-notes  push  against  my  ears  and  lips, 

And  I  go  to  sleep,  dreaming. 


242  POPPY  SEED 

A  LADY 

You  are  beautiful  and  faded 

Like  an  old  opera  tune 

Played  upon  a  harpsichord ; 

Or  like  the  sun-flooded  silks 

Of  an  eighteenth-century  boudoir. 

In  your  eyes 

Smoulder  the  fallen  roses  of  out-lived  minutes* 

And  the  perfume  of  your  soul 

Is  vague  and  suffusing, 

With  the  pungence  of  sealed  spice-jars. 

Your  half-tones  delight  me, 

And  I  grow  mad  with  gazing 

At  your  blent  colours. 

My  vigour  is  a  new-minted  penny, 
Which  I  cast  at  your  feet. 


POPPY  SEED 

Gather  it  up  from  the  dust, 
That  its  sparkle  may  amuse  you. 


844  POPPY  SEED 

IN  A  GARDEN 

GUSHING  from  the  mouths  of  stone  men 

To  spread  at  ease  under  the  sky 

In  granite-lipped  basins, 

Where  iris  dabble  their  feet 

And  rustle  to  a  passing  wind, 

The  water  fills  the  garden  with  its  rushing, 

In  the  midst  of  the  quiet  of  close-clipped  lawns. 

Damp  smell  the  ferns  in  tunnels  of  stone, 
Where  trickle  and  plash  the  fountains, 
Marble  fountains,  yellowed  with  much  water. 

Splashing  down  moss-tarnished  steps 

It  falls,  the  water ; 

And  the  air  is  throbbing  with  it. 


POPPY   SEED  245 

With  its  gurgling  and  running. 

With  its  leaping,  and  deep,  cool  murmur. 

And  I  wished  for  night  and  you. 

I  wanted  to  see  you  in  the  swimming-pool, 

White  and  shining  in  the  silver-flecked  water. 

While  the  moon  rode  over  the  garden, 

High  in  the  arch  of  night, 

And  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  was  heavy  with  stillness. 

Night,  and  the  water,  and  you  in  your  whiteness, 
bathing ! 


246  POPPY   SEED 

A  TULIP  GARDEN 

GUABDED  within  the  old  red  wall's  embrace, 
Marshalled  like  soldiers  in  gay  company, 
The  tulips  stand  arrayed.   Here  infantry 

Wheels  out  into  the  sunlight.   What  bold  grace 

Sets  off  their  tunics,  white  with  crimson  lace  ! 
Here  are  platoons  of  gold-frocked  cavalry, 
With  scarlet  sabres  tossing  in  the  eye 

Of  purple  batteries,  every  gun  in  place. 

Forward  they  come,  with  flaunting  colours  spread, 

With  torches  burning,  stepping  out  in  time 
To  some  quick,  unheard  march.   Our  ears  are  dead, 

We  cannot  catch  the  tune.   In  pantomime 
Parades  that  army.  With  our  utmost  powers 
We  hear  the  wind  stream  through  a  bed  of  flowers. 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD231M7237 


